Ajja
Appa calls at 1330 hours on Friday, the 20th of July 2007.
“Smitha, I’m afraid there is some bad news. Ajja…”
His voice breaks. “Ajja is no more.” I listen to Appa sob as I try to absorb this news. Try to cope with it, so I can arrange to leave to Siddapur to see my Ajja for the …for the last time.
They have laid him out in the outer living room. Sandalwood and rose garlands are draped on him, incense scents the air and the Vishnu Sahasranama plays softly. He looks peaceful and calm - dignified as always. Ammamma sits by his side, dry eyed, but she bursts in to tears when she sees me.
“Where can you find a man like this?” she sobs, as I hug her very tight. “Where can you find someone like him?”
She describes his last moments.
“He was very breathless, so we gave him oxygen and suddenly his body jerked and it was over.”
Vijayatte tells me Ammamma kept shaking Ajja, telling him to talk to her, and when the doctor came, she fell at his feet and asked him to make Ajja ok.
“What might have happened?” she asks me. “He was breathless, but not unusually so.”
“A sudden cardiac arrest, probably. But Vijayatte, I would pray for a death like this for someone I loved. Sudden, with no time for pain or fear. He was continent, oriented; his memory was sharp till the very last breath”.
Shashi says, “Yes, he died like he lived. With dignity.”
Ammamma sits next to Ajja. She refuses to eat or drink anything, does not lean on the wall. We beg her to rest for a few moments but she says, “No, this is the last seva I am doing for him.”
She repeatedly reaches under the covering sheet and massages his right forearm. I ask why.
“He was saying this morning that this hand hurt. ... So ...”
Vijayatte has helped nurse Ajja for so many years. She has given him his tablets, taken him to the doctor – Ammamma says “Vijaya is my right hand.” Perhaps this is why Ajja’s death hits her so hard.
She tells me - “I was giving him oxygen today. He wanted to tell me something, but I thought that talking was secondary - he needed his oxygen. I did not let him speak, and now, Smitha, I can't bear it, I can’t stop wondering what he wanted to say.” she breaks down.
So much heartache. Medhakka and family arrive from Bangalore, and she holds on to Ammamma and cries.
“He just wanted another six months.” Ammamma sobs to Medhakka. “Just six months more, so that he could meet Suranna.” Rahul sits quietly behind Ammamma. He finally persuades her to lean against a cushion for a moment. Prabha chikki and Ramesh chikkayya arrive. Prabha chikki is wailing, holding on to Ajja, touching his face.
Appa, Rachana, Rajesh, Seemu, V.N. Mava, Samit, Amod reach around 3am. Amod and Samit sob outside, trying to compose themselves before Ammamma sees them. Ammamma holds on to Appa and cries “Subraya, it is over. He has left us.”
Seemu weeps to me “Smithakka, he wanted to meet me, and I kept putting it off. It’s too late now. I can’t stand it.
The night wears on. We try to cope by remembering Ajja. These are some of the things that I hear. There are so many more memories discussed that night that I do not hear, so many more that are unvoiced.
Viju mava tells me “Dr Sattur in Hubli wanted to examine him, and asked him to take off his shirt. He removed it carefully, shook out the sleeves and hung it neatly on a peg. The doctor shook his head in amazement at Ajja’s discipline.”
Medhakka tells me he used to come home at 8 pm, and from eight to nine, he would read the Rudra. Then he would have a drink.
“I was so immature then, I used to argue with him, tell him that following worship with alcohol was hypocrisy, but now I know his character had many facets. He was very spiritual but he enjoyed his drink too. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Medhakka says.
Prabha chikki remembers Shubha’s wedding day.
“He was sick just before the event, and we were worried whether he would have the strength to get through it. But he woke up before everyone, and by the time we saw him, he was seated in the living room, neat as a pin in his starched white kurta and dhoti.”
“How did he do it?” I ask Medhakka.
“How did he manage to do everything he did over the last 5 years with a failing heart and lungs?”
“Strength of character.” She replies.
I remember him calling me up when I was carrying. I had already lost a pregnancy, and the second time around, I was terrified. I wasn’t certain at all about the outcome. Ajja used to tell me over the phone. “I am doing gana homas, I am praying for you and I know that very soon, a little Ganapathi will be born to you.”
Ajja, why didn’t I tell you how much that meant to me? Why didn’t I thank you for the courage you gave me?
We all smile for a moment, thinking about Ajja’s characteristic departures. It did not matter how much time he spent with us, the moment he sat in his car on the way to the next destination, he was off. Eyes straight ahead, mind set ahead and no time for messy sentimental goodbyes or long winded farewells.
It is morning now, and Ammamma has not rested for a second. People from the town trickle in to pay their last respects. An old man hobbles in wearing a woollen cap and thick glasses. He touches Ajja’s feet and whispers softly. Then a sleek, well-fed gent in a khadi kurta and Nehru topi pays his respects and lays a sandalwood garland at Ajja’s feet. Then walks in an old lady dressed in rags. A Christian, a Muslim, a rich man, a poor one … the list goes on. How many lives did Ajja touch?
It is time for the last rites. Ajja had told Nani mava that he did not want his sons to go through the trauma of having their heads shorn, but they all shave their heads anyway. I’m sure these rituals have a meaning and a purpose – but it hurts so much. The placing of gold in the mouth, the pouring water over the cold body…words can not describe the pain. Finally, the pallbearers try to remove the body, but Ammamma does not want to let Ajja go. She holds on tight to the body… at this point, everyone in the hall is sobbing. Sixty-seven years together – how can she let him go? She falls back and Ajja is carried to the place where he will be cremated.
We all follow. Ajja is laid on the pyre, and his body is covered with a silk sheet, and then more wood. The chanting of mantras and the drizzle muffle the occasional sobs. Ajja’s wife and his children and grandchildren and the rest of the family lay wood on his body and the fire is lit.
After this, some measure of calm returns to us. The pain is still there, however it is bearable now. But there is a terrible bleakness in Ammamma’s eyes.
“What will I do with my time now?” she asks. “With myself?”
As the fire consumes him, we start back home. I turn back once to see my Ajja – a shrewd politician, a successful businessman, a respected and loved father, husband and grandfather, a man with a spiritual side, a man who above all, lived life and savoured it. The smoke rises to the rainy sky.
It’s all over now.
But as we walk back home, this is what I hear:
“He kept my family fed.”
“He started me in my career.”
“He helped me get my daughter married.”
“I started my business with the money he loaned me.”
“He gave me courage to face a lifetime.”
“He educated my children.”
“I am what I am today because of Ganesh Hegde.”
When a life is lived like this, the fact of death becomes irrelevant.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Leh - the land of the high passes
TRAVELOGUE – LADAKH THE LAND OF THE HIGH PASSES
I’m traveling to Leh with a bunch of ladies – I’m armed with woolens, the funda about altitude sickness, my trusty Nikon and nestling in a corner of my heart is something ... perhaps anxiety? My first trip without my baby…and it’s so far away….
Well, here we are on the plane, 18 women in varying shades of pink, just getting to know each other. And that’s the nice bit about being female – we don’t really take too long to break the ice. For example, 5 minutes on to the flight, I already know Niru has a deadly sense of humour, Meera likes to wake people up, Meenakshi has the mind of a poet and so on and so forth.
We’re women, we chatter, but even the most voluble of us is silenced by the sight of the great Himalayas below us.
The pilot does a little tricky maneuver to get between the mountains, and we are flying very low indeed, the Spituk monastery on one wingtip, the hills on the other.
We land in Ladakh – cold thin air, very blue skies, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. I pick up my mountain of luggage, and we all drive to the Hotel Spic and Span, staring open mouthed at prayer wheels and little kids off to school and the far away horizon. Our hotel is curious mixture of carved wood windows and cement bricks that should look incongruous but does not. The staff is friendly – they welcome us with white scarves, ‘jooley!’s, tea and cookies. We (Sampreethi from Katmandu and I) walk up to room 212, and our climb is rewarded by the sight of snowcapped maintains through the windows. Today, I’m very careful – 4 litres of water, paracetamol and plenty of rest.
View from our room
Post lunch we are all feeling a little sick. It’s a kind of light-headedness, something like there is too little oxygen or too much alcohol in your blood stream. We feel much better after a nap and we drive to Shanthi Stupa.
Shanthi Stupa
The drive is interesting – curving streets, lined by the usual tourist traps, interspersed with some gems. The view is breath taking. Schools perched on high hills, green valleys, snow capped peaks in the distance, and the wind eroded Moon Mountains. The monastery near Shanthi Stupa is old and beautiful – pictures of Manjusri, a golden Buddha, two huge drums. The Stupa itself is a little new, white, and brash, but the view makes up for it.
I learn a little about the life in Ladakh from our driver – that the ubiquitous white structures lining the roads are called ‘Manis’, , the fact that prayer flags flutter above all Buddhist homes and how they handle the hibernation – 3 months stuck at home during winter
17.06.07
I wake up at 6a.m – perhaps because of the early night, the sunlight, or the altitude. Sampreethi and I walk to the terrace – what a view! Gold sunlight waking up the mountains, men nimbly leaping up the rock face to pray at the gompa, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. We meet for breakfast, and we are finally getting to know each other. Ladies, do I have this right?
1. Sumitra – our unflappable, calm leader.
2. Vijayalakshmi – the banker from Delhi
3. Meera – the SBH banker now in Bangalore
4. Rachana – from Delhi
5. Monica – the shoe entrepreneur from Spain
6. Meenakshi – the gynaec from Delhi
7. Smitha – that’s me – the physician from Mangalore
8. Sujatha – the IT gal from Delhi
9. Anu and Niru – the cool sisters from Bangalore and Delhi respectively
10. Tasneem – from Bombay
11. Lubaina – the socks kiddo
12. Nishreen
13. Arwa
14. Nadia
15. Renuka – the finance lady from Bombay
16. Aradhana – the NPO lady from Bangalore
17. Sampreethi from Kathmandu
Then we set off on our trip – me, Anu, Monika, Meera, and a sweetheart of a driver. What a lovely world this is! Today, I express my gratitude to
God, for making these mountains.
The border road builders.
The regiments – Himank, HU, Chushul Eagles and so on that are posted here.
Zanskar meeting the Indus
A straight road in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a ring of mountains – those in the distance are topped by snow. Far below us, in the distance, flows the Indus, and the army trucks and soldiers standing by them are made tiny by the distance. “I hope you dance” is on the music system – everything comes together and it is an epiphany. I cry softly behind my shades. Monica hands me a tissue quietly - female bonding at it’s’ best. Female bonding again at an improvised loo stop on the curve of a road. Five girls, their faces carefully expressionless, stand guard while others creep behind them to pee. It is hilarious.
During a long drive through jagged peaks and wind-eroded mountains, we sing along with the music on the deck. The driver, Tondup) looks beleaguered. I wonder how our collective musical effort sounds. Four women singing at the top of their voices, in accents ranging from Spanish to Kannada, in pitches ranging from approaching earthquake to Pomeranian bark. Tondup has had enough. Inspiration strikes and he switches the tape to Ladakhi music, which he can safely assume no one knows.
Monica does not like the way some drivers overtake us on the twisty streets. “Ayayay! Loco! Loco!” she shrieks. I love the way she does this, and resolve it to use on the rickshaw drivers back home.
After a long drive indeed, we reach the Alchi monastery. And we are so fortunate that we happen in on a welcoming ceremony for a great guru, the Dalai Lama’s brother. It is incredibly moving - watching these exiled people sit by the side of the road patiently waiting for their leader. Soon the lama walks in - wise and dignified in his maroon and orange robes. The people rise, murmuring, bending forwards, reaching out to just touch his robes…it is so poignant.
At the Alchi Monastery
The guru walks down the lovely monastery paths to the temple within, and the people follow, with us in their wake.
We walk down the cobbled paths, admiring the lovely Tibetan women in blue and white silks, the Ladakhi men with patient, ageless faces, the apple cheeked children who troop behind their leader. Perhaps we irritate them, with our queries and our curiosity and our endless requests for photographs – but they are extraordinarily gentle to us – the intruders who have barged in to what surely must be an important function for them.
They reluctantly let us into the temple proper – a small dark room where there are 4 idols of Buddha. Lovely woodcarvings decorate the doorway, and the interior is dark and incense scented. We leave this most unusual and beautiful of monasteries with reluctance and head onwards to Likkir. We stop on the way for a picnic lunch by a brook. We offer some of our food to two lovely little girls who smile shyly at us from a safe distance. They accept the food, but it is later eaten by their cow, which eats our sandwich –thepla - pastry lunch with relish.
Resplendent Buddha at Likkir
The rest of the trip is a blur, possibly because we are so tired. The Gurdwara Pather Saheb is maintained in apple pie order by the army and has an intriguing history. A rakshas apparently threw a rock at the meditating guru, and the rock, far from injuring Nanakji, moulded itself around him; took his shape.
The Spituk monastery is interesting – a flirty monk shows us pictures of white Tara and Shakyamuni Buddha. We descend steep stairs and enter a small wonderfully evocative room. Low benches where the monks pray line the chamber- they are covered by thick colourful rugs. Thin yellow curtains flutter at the tiny windows. And in the midst of the incense scented darkness a beautiful ten foot Buddha smiles down at us. I remember the lines of a popular book ‘This place has known magic.’
18.06. 07
We drive to Chilling for rafting, and we’re not really deterred by the vehicles heading towards us, their occupants warning us saying the water is turbulent, too choppy, too rough. Eighteen of us, stuffed in to life jackets and waterproofs stand on the banks of the Zanskar listening to a spirited safety briefing by the utterly lovable Babu. Finally we divide ourselves on to three rafts, our feet anchoring us to the boat, our bums sticking out inelegantly. It’s such fun!!! Babu’s staccato orders of “Forward paddle” “Backwards, left” the gorges towering over us on both sides with caves and holes in the stone letting in blue sky, the pure rush of using your muscle and nerve to fight the strength of the water, the sudden shock of the ice cold river splashing on your face – oh this is a sport you can easily get addicted to, and I sure am.
And the al fresco lunch on the banks of the Indus is the perfect end to the adventure. Hot cups of chai, wholesome soul food – rajma chawal and fresh veggies, low key chatter while we warm ourselves in the sunlight – it’s simple, it is simply beautiful. The life jackets dry on a clothesline – orange and red, the colours of the Buddhist monks – and I reflect as I watch the wind on the water, that these two pursuits – meditation and rafting - are not dissimilar.
19.06.07
We make an early start today – a cold, lovely morning. The first stop is at Thikse monastery – it is stunning. Perched on top of a hill – white and ochre walls and a view of the mountains that makes you breathless.
Thikse Monastery
A monk shows us the long lavishly decorated puja room. At one end is the Shakyamuni Buddha with shelves of Khanjur and Thanjur behind him, at the other end are huge ceremonial drums. I climb up a steep flight of stairs to see a young monk performing puja, oblivious of my presence.
He reads with concentration, intermittently striking a drum. I wish I could escape in to some place like this, free from distraction, the mind fixed on one object to adore.
Then to the abode of the Maitreya Buddha.
We walk into the room, and are calmed. Trigger happy tourists sit still, chattering women are silent. People sit quietly to watch the Maitreya, to absorb some of his ineffable peace. What is it that makes him so special? What makes the peace that emanates from him almost tangible, his love palpable? He sits cross-legged, fingers in the teaching Mudra. His cheeks are golden, his eyes compassionate. Ours fill.
Maitreya Buddha
After this, breakfast by the wayside, and off to the Hemis monastery. It is a co-old – and lovely place. Wild roses grow on the hillside; snowflakes float down gently to land on our upturned faces. Here we see monks dancing – rehearsing for the Hemis festival at the end of the month. One man beats the cymbals, the other sings a low-pitched song, and the monks do this slow, rhythmic leap from foot to foot. It is quite funny, actually.
Monks at Hemis
We drive on narrow roads on huge mountains towards Pang Gong Tso – the precipices heart stopping, the jooleys on the way heart warming. We cross the Changla pass. At 17,800 feet high, it is the third highest motorable road in the world. Then down the mountains – desolate, desert landscape – melancholy memorials to soldieries slain in the Indo China war on the roadside, bursts of white flowers on the hills.
In quick succession, we cross terrifying mountains with rocks poised to topple over us, green meadows (we lunch on one of them) and arid beach scapes.
We finally reach the Pang Gong Tso. What a beautiful freezing lapis lazuli lake, so changeable in mood and colour. At times, she is frisky and clear green, at others mysterious and sapphire blue. Sometimes we see the sky in her calm surface, sometimes the snow topped peaks. Sometimes, the face of the Maitreya Buddha.
It’s very, very cold near Pang Gong; after all, we’re 15,000 feet up. We huddle around a bonfire and introduce ourselves to a Cypriot brother and sister. “We heard you were a bunch of Indian Airlines stewardesses.” Stefanio says.
“No.” we clarify.
“We’re a women’s travel group – Women On Wanderlust.”
“Wow.” they say.
“That’s us.” we answer, laughing.
The next morning, we drive back through snowy Changla to reach the hotel. We drop in to LedEg where we do some shopping. I venture out on my own for the first time that evening. I buy stuff at the Buddhist Tangkha house, have Kashmiri Kahwa at the ‘desert rain cafe’ and generally home a whale of a time.
The last day of the trip and we drive up to Khardungla top. This is the world’s highest motorable road. We follow a convoy of army trucks - soldiers off to spend months on the Siachen glacier, and once more, I am flooded with respect for these men who stand on our wall, and guard us. K top is special. There is a temple, big views, and cold winds. One of the gals has AMS and I’m very, very glad that Sumitra had the foresight to bring oxygen.
On the way back, Tondup plays old love songs, and we sing along. We take a couple of snaps next to the very cute Khardungla frog.
We halt for refueling black market diesel at a busy smelly market place. We wait for Tondup, a little grumpily. A jeep stops by us, and a man leans out, smiling. A pretty lady walks to him, and they hold hands. He tilts his head, smiles shyly, she blushes, looks up at him.
Awww. They are so sweet. In the distance a prayer wheel spins.
The trip ends too soon, and we’re flying back to Delhi.
This time, I have with me: Pashmina shawls and apricot jam and new friends, and nestling in my heart is...I think it is gratitude.
Info:
Visit Leh between June and August. Jet airways and Air Deccan have daily flights to Leh from Delhi. We traveled with a women only travel group and a had a great time – visit WOW at http://wowsumitra.com/. Hotel Spic and Span and Hotel Shambhala are two of the many good stay options. Carry woolens, abstain from alcohol, walk around beautiful Leh, and have a great time!!
I’m traveling to Leh with a bunch of ladies – I’m armed with woolens, the funda about altitude sickness, my trusty Nikon and nestling in a corner of my heart is something ... perhaps anxiety? My first trip without my baby…and it’s so far away….
Well, here we are on the plane, 18 women in varying shades of pink, just getting to know each other. And that’s the nice bit about being female – we don’t really take too long to break the ice. For example, 5 minutes on to the flight, I already know Niru has a deadly sense of humour, Meera likes to wake people up, Meenakshi has the mind of a poet and so on and so forth.
We’re women, we chatter, but even the most voluble of us is silenced by the sight of the great Himalayas below us.
The pilot does a little tricky maneuver to get between the mountains, and we are flying very low indeed, the Spituk monastery on one wingtip, the hills on the other.
We land in Ladakh – cold thin air, very blue skies, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. I pick up my mountain of luggage, and we all drive to the Hotel Spic and Span, staring open mouthed at prayer wheels and little kids off to school and the far away horizon. Our hotel is curious mixture of carved wood windows and cement bricks that should look incongruous but does not. The staff is friendly – they welcome us with white scarves, ‘jooley!’s, tea and cookies. We (Sampreethi from Katmandu and I) walk up to room 212, and our climb is rewarded by the sight of snowcapped maintains through the windows. Today, I’m very careful – 4 litres of water, paracetamol and plenty of rest.
View from our room
Post lunch we are all feeling a little sick. It’s a kind of light-headedness, something like there is too little oxygen or too much alcohol in your blood stream. We feel much better after a nap and we drive to Shanthi Stupa.
Shanthi Stupa
The drive is interesting – curving streets, lined by the usual tourist traps, interspersed with some gems. The view is breath taking. Schools perched on high hills, green valleys, snow capped peaks in the distance, and the wind eroded Moon Mountains. The monastery near Shanthi Stupa is old and beautiful – pictures of Manjusri, a golden Buddha, two huge drums. The Stupa itself is a little new, white, and brash, but the view makes up for it.
I learn a little about the life in Ladakh from our driver – that the ubiquitous white structures lining the roads are called ‘Manis’, , the fact that prayer flags flutter above all Buddhist homes and how they handle the hibernation – 3 months stuck at home during winter
17.06.07
I wake up at 6a.m – perhaps because of the early night, the sunlight, or the altitude. Sampreethi and I walk to the terrace – what a view! Gold sunlight waking up the mountains, men nimbly leaping up the rock face to pray at the gompa, prayer flags fluttering in the breeze. We meet for breakfast, and we are finally getting to know each other. Ladies, do I have this right?
1. Sumitra – our unflappable, calm leader.
2. Vijayalakshmi – the banker from Delhi
3. Meera – the SBH banker now in Bangalore
4. Rachana – from Delhi
5. Monica – the shoe entrepreneur from Spain
6. Meenakshi – the gynaec from Delhi
7. Smitha – that’s me – the physician from Mangalore
8. Sujatha – the IT gal from Delhi
9. Anu and Niru – the cool sisters from Bangalore and Delhi respectively
10. Tasneem – from Bombay
11. Lubaina – the socks kiddo
12. Nishreen
13. Arwa
14. Nadia
15. Renuka – the finance lady from Bombay
16. Aradhana – the NPO lady from Bangalore
17. Sampreethi from Kathmandu
Then we set off on our trip – me, Anu, Monika, Meera, and a sweetheart of a driver. What a lovely world this is! Today, I express my gratitude to
God, for making these mountains.
The border road builders.
The regiments – Himank, HU, Chushul Eagles and so on that are posted here.
Zanskar meeting the Indus
A straight road in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a ring of mountains – those in the distance are topped by snow. Far below us, in the distance, flows the Indus, and the army trucks and soldiers standing by them are made tiny by the distance. “I hope you dance” is on the music system – everything comes together and it is an epiphany. I cry softly behind my shades. Monica hands me a tissue quietly - female bonding at it’s’ best. Female bonding again at an improvised loo stop on the curve of a road. Five girls, their faces carefully expressionless, stand guard while others creep behind them to pee. It is hilarious.
During a long drive through jagged peaks and wind-eroded mountains, we sing along with the music on the deck. The driver, Tondup) looks beleaguered. I wonder how our collective musical effort sounds. Four women singing at the top of their voices, in accents ranging from Spanish to Kannada, in pitches ranging from approaching earthquake to Pomeranian bark. Tondup has had enough. Inspiration strikes and he switches the tape to Ladakhi music, which he can safely assume no one knows.
Monica does not like the way some drivers overtake us on the twisty streets. “Ayayay! Loco! Loco!” she shrieks. I love the way she does this, and resolve it to use on the rickshaw drivers back home.
After a long drive indeed, we reach the Alchi monastery. And we are so fortunate that we happen in on a welcoming ceremony for a great guru, the Dalai Lama’s brother. It is incredibly moving - watching these exiled people sit by the side of the road patiently waiting for their leader. Soon the lama walks in - wise and dignified in his maroon and orange robes. The people rise, murmuring, bending forwards, reaching out to just touch his robes…it is so poignant.
At the Alchi Monastery
The guru walks down the lovely monastery paths to the temple within, and the people follow, with us in their wake.
We walk down the cobbled paths, admiring the lovely Tibetan women in blue and white silks, the Ladakhi men with patient, ageless faces, the apple cheeked children who troop behind their leader. Perhaps we irritate them, with our queries and our curiosity and our endless requests for photographs – but they are extraordinarily gentle to us – the intruders who have barged in to what surely must be an important function for them.
They reluctantly let us into the temple proper – a small dark room where there are 4 idols of Buddha. Lovely woodcarvings decorate the doorway, and the interior is dark and incense scented. We leave this most unusual and beautiful of monasteries with reluctance and head onwards to Likkir. We stop on the way for a picnic lunch by a brook. We offer some of our food to two lovely little girls who smile shyly at us from a safe distance. They accept the food, but it is later eaten by their cow, which eats our sandwich –thepla - pastry lunch with relish.
Resplendent Buddha at Likkir
The rest of the trip is a blur, possibly because we are so tired. The Gurdwara Pather Saheb is maintained in apple pie order by the army and has an intriguing history. A rakshas apparently threw a rock at the meditating guru, and the rock, far from injuring Nanakji, moulded itself around him; took his shape.
The Spituk monastery is interesting – a flirty monk shows us pictures of white Tara and Shakyamuni Buddha. We descend steep stairs and enter a small wonderfully evocative room. Low benches where the monks pray line the chamber- they are covered by thick colourful rugs. Thin yellow curtains flutter at the tiny windows. And in the midst of the incense scented darkness a beautiful ten foot Buddha smiles down at us. I remember the lines of a popular book ‘This place has known magic.’
18.06. 07
We drive to Chilling for rafting, and we’re not really deterred by the vehicles heading towards us, their occupants warning us saying the water is turbulent, too choppy, too rough. Eighteen of us, stuffed in to life jackets and waterproofs stand on the banks of the Zanskar listening to a spirited safety briefing by the utterly lovable Babu. Finally we divide ourselves on to three rafts, our feet anchoring us to the boat, our bums sticking out inelegantly. It’s such fun!!! Babu’s staccato orders of “Forward paddle” “Backwards, left” the gorges towering over us on both sides with caves and holes in the stone letting in blue sky, the pure rush of using your muscle and nerve to fight the strength of the water, the sudden shock of the ice cold river splashing on your face – oh this is a sport you can easily get addicted to, and I sure am.
And the al fresco lunch on the banks of the Indus is the perfect end to the adventure. Hot cups of chai, wholesome soul food – rajma chawal and fresh veggies, low key chatter while we warm ourselves in the sunlight – it’s simple, it is simply beautiful. The life jackets dry on a clothesline – orange and red, the colours of the Buddhist monks – and I reflect as I watch the wind on the water, that these two pursuits – meditation and rafting - are not dissimilar.
19.06.07
We make an early start today – a cold, lovely morning. The first stop is at Thikse monastery – it is stunning. Perched on top of a hill – white and ochre walls and a view of the mountains that makes you breathless.
Thikse Monastery
A monk shows us the long lavishly decorated puja room. At one end is the Shakyamuni Buddha with shelves of Khanjur and Thanjur behind him, at the other end are huge ceremonial drums. I climb up a steep flight of stairs to see a young monk performing puja, oblivious of my presence.
He reads with concentration, intermittently striking a drum. I wish I could escape in to some place like this, free from distraction, the mind fixed on one object to adore.
Then to the abode of the Maitreya Buddha.
We walk into the room, and are calmed. Trigger happy tourists sit still, chattering women are silent. People sit quietly to watch the Maitreya, to absorb some of his ineffable peace. What is it that makes him so special? What makes the peace that emanates from him almost tangible, his love palpable? He sits cross-legged, fingers in the teaching Mudra. His cheeks are golden, his eyes compassionate. Ours fill.
Maitreya Buddha
After this, breakfast by the wayside, and off to the Hemis monastery. It is a co-old – and lovely place. Wild roses grow on the hillside; snowflakes float down gently to land on our upturned faces. Here we see monks dancing – rehearsing for the Hemis festival at the end of the month. One man beats the cymbals, the other sings a low-pitched song, and the monks do this slow, rhythmic leap from foot to foot. It is quite funny, actually.
Monks at Hemis
We drive on narrow roads on huge mountains towards Pang Gong Tso – the precipices heart stopping, the jooleys on the way heart warming. We cross the Changla pass. At 17,800 feet high, it is the third highest motorable road in the world. Then down the mountains – desolate, desert landscape – melancholy memorials to soldieries slain in the Indo China war on the roadside, bursts of white flowers on the hills.
In quick succession, we cross terrifying mountains with rocks poised to topple over us, green meadows (we lunch on one of them) and arid beach scapes.
We finally reach the Pang Gong Tso. What a beautiful freezing lapis lazuli lake, so changeable in mood and colour. At times, she is frisky and clear green, at others mysterious and sapphire blue. Sometimes we see the sky in her calm surface, sometimes the snow topped peaks. Sometimes, the face of the Maitreya Buddha.
It’s very, very cold near Pang Gong; after all, we’re 15,000 feet up. We huddle around a bonfire and introduce ourselves to a Cypriot brother and sister. “We heard you were a bunch of Indian Airlines stewardesses.” Stefanio says.
“No.” we clarify.
“We’re a women’s travel group – Women On Wanderlust.”
“Wow.” they say.
“That’s us.” we answer, laughing.
The next morning, we drive back through snowy Changla to reach the hotel. We drop in to LedEg where we do some shopping. I venture out on my own for the first time that evening. I buy stuff at the Buddhist Tangkha house, have Kashmiri Kahwa at the ‘desert rain cafe’ and generally home a whale of a time.
The last day of the trip and we drive up to Khardungla top. This is the world’s highest motorable road. We follow a convoy of army trucks - soldiers off to spend months on the Siachen glacier, and once more, I am flooded with respect for these men who stand on our wall, and guard us. K top is special. There is a temple, big views, and cold winds. One of the gals has AMS and I’m very, very glad that Sumitra had the foresight to bring oxygen.
On the way back, Tondup plays old love songs, and we sing along. We take a couple of snaps next to the very cute Khardungla frog.
We halt for refueling black market diesel at a busy smelly market place. We wait for Tondup, a little grumpily. A jeep stops by us, and a man leans out, smiling. A pretty lady walks to him, and they hold hands. He tilts his head, smiles shyly, she blushes, looks up at him.
Awww. They are so sweet. In the distance a prayer wheel spins.
The trip ends too soon, and we’re flying back to Delhi.
This time, I have with me: Pashmina shawls and apricot jam and new friends, and nestling in my heart is...I think it is gratitude.
Info:
Visit Leh between June and August. Jet airways and Air Deccan have daily flights to Leh from Delhi. We traveled with a women only travel group and a had a great time – visit WOW at http://wowsumitra.com/. Hotel Spic and Span and Hotel Shambhala are two of the many good stay options. Carry woolens, abstain from alcohol, walk around beautiful Leh, and have a great time!!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Eyes
Each day in the hospital, I reflect that they should have spent more time teaching us about eyes. Eyes tell a doctor so much. I’m not talking about things like jaundice and anemia, though these are important too. Eyes do not lie, to a sensitive doctor.He is a twenty-year-old boy.
Embarrassed a little at his parents’ concern. “He’s had fever for 5 days, doctor.” The mother says. In spite of his would be bravado, he looks a little sick, and I admit him. Blood tests show he has a very severe malaria, and I am worried, angry too. Why did you bring him this late I want to ask her, but the misery and anxiety in her eyes as she looks at her shivering son hushes me.
We start him on treatment, but it is a steady downhill course.I am very concerned now. His breathing is becoming laboured, his kidneys are not working. His liver is packing up.
“We may need to intubate and ventilate him.” I tell the father. He closes his eyes and turns his face to the wall sobbing. “We may have to put him on a ventilator.” I tell the mother. “It’s expensive.” “Anything, do anything, doctor.” She looks at me, one mother to another, and says, “He is my only son, doctor.”
I have to save this boy. We connect him to a ventilator, we dialyze him, we put him on medicines to bring up his blood pressure . But I know , I know somehow that nothing is going to work. The boy lasts through the night but he does not see the morning sunlight that slants in to the ICU.
I have to tell the mother. I know she will die a little death herself as I tell her. However, I must tell her.I do not have to tell her. She sees it in my eyes and so does her husband . He is sobbing, wailing. She is frozen . “Can I see him?” “Yes.” I say, and as I lead her in to the ICU, she is shaking.
She softly touches the still face of the one she has borne, fed , brought up and loved, probably more than she has loved anyone or anything in her life . I am crying at the pain in her face. She looks up at me, dry eyed and says, “We would like to donate his eyes, doctor.”
Embarrassed a little at his parents’ concern. “He’s had fever for 5 days, doctor.” The mother says. In spite of his would be bravado, he looks a little sick, and I admit him. Blood tests show he has a very severe malaria, and I am worried, angry too. Why did you bring him this late I want to ask her, but the misery and anxiety in her eyes as she looks at her shivering son hushes me.
We start him on treatment, but it is a steady downhill course.I am very concerned now. His breathing is becoming laboured, his kidneys are not working. His liver is packing up.
“We may need to intubate and ventilate him.” I tell the father. He closes his eyes and turns his face to the wall sobbing. “We may have to put him on a ventilator.” I tell the mother. “It’s expensive.” “Anything, do anything, doctor.” She looks at me, one mother to another, and says, “He is my only son, doctor.”
I have to save this boy. We connect him to a ventilator, we dialyze him, we put him on medicines to bring up his blood pressure . But I know , I know somehow that nothing is going to work. The boy lasts through the night but he does not see the morning sunlight that slants in to the ICU.
I have to tell the mother. I know she will die a little death herself as I tell her. However, I must tell her.I do not have to tell her. She sees it in my eyes and so does her husband . He is sobbing, wailing. She is frozen . “Can I see him?” “Yes.” I say, and as I lead her in to the ICU, she is shaking.
She softly touches the still face of the one she has borne, fed , brought up and loved, probably more than she has loved anyone or anything in her life . I am crying at the pain in her face. She looks up at me, dry eyed and says, “We would like to donate his eyes, doctor.”
Something Good
Past midnight, and my night owl son is sitting on my lap and gazing up at me with wide-awake eyes. On the music system is Parameshwar Hegde singing barani na jaye. I wait wearily for the inevitable request to change the music to 'wheels on the bus' or something like that.
But, my little boy listens for a moment and pronounces 'chanda'. I am surprised, delighted and smile at him with pride. In response, he gives me that look of pure and unclouded affection that only a child's eyes can hold. It's been a long tough day, I am a sentimental idiot, and I’m undone by that look. I cry, just a little bit, but my baby is terribly concerned. He wipes my face with his treasured Mickey Mouse towel, looking very worried indeed. Then, he holds my hand, leads me to the balcony, points at the full moon, and says “See?”, looking at my face to see whether this has cheered me up a little . I watch the yellow moon float above the sleeping city, my child’s tiny hand in mine, and I reflect that to deserve a moment like this, I must have done something very, very good.
But, my little boy listens for a moment and pronounces 'chanda'. I am surprised, delighted and smile at him with pride. In response, he gives me that look of pure and unclouded affection that only a child's eyes can hold. It's been a long tough day, I am a sentimental idiot, and I’m undone by that look. I cry, just a little bit, but my baby is terribly concerned. He wipes my face with his treasured Mickey Mouse towel, looking very worried indeed. Then, he holds my hand, leads me to the balcony, points at the full moon, and says “See?”, looking at my face to see whether this has cheered me up a little . I watch the yellow moon float above the sleeping city, my child’s tiny hand in mine, and I reflect that to deserve a moment like this, I must have done something very, very good.
The horrific tale of the jet lagged parrot
The Horrific Tale of the Jet Lagged Parrot
We were one of those typical , so often caricatured apartment complexes – full of stolidly middle class families, energetically involved in each other’s lives, extremely right wing and righteous. Then how, how did we get drawn in to a web of attempted homicide, adultery and gang wars?
It all started with the parrot.
On the top floor of our building, strategically placed to catch the sunrise over Besant Nagar beach, there lived a kindly, mildly eccentric old widower, Mr. Alagappan. “How are you, Uncle?” I asked him one morning as we strolled around the 4-foot wide patch of withered grass we called our garden. “Lonely, my dear, lonely after my dear wife has left me. The house is so silent.” I wondered briefly if he was making a pass, but it was unlikely – he was ancient, toothless and completely benign. “Why don’t you get a pet? A parrot?” I suggested. “Good idea! I’ll think about it.” He said, smiling.
Mea culpa.
“Radhika, I followed your advice and bought a parrot. I’m forever in your debt, my dear. What an intelligent companion I have found! I discuss musical theory with him, and corporate law, and I swear he understands every word. Would you like to come up and meet him?” “Sure.” We walk up to his messy flat. “What have you called him?” “Chellam.” “Hey, Chellam chweety, chweety, say hello.” The parrot fixed me with a beady eye and looked terribly affronted. “Don’t talk to him in baby speak. It insults his intelligence.” Old Alagappan hissed from behind me. I tried again.
“Good afternoon, Chellam. Very pleased to meet you. And how are you today, sir?”
The parrot grinned. “Stop chattering, woman, and get me some food.” “You’re teaching him to be a chauvinist, Uncle.” I said, as I left their house. I felt a warm halo beginning at the top of my head. This was good for at least twenty credit points with the accounting angel who my mother assured me was sitting on a cloud and keeping track of everything we do.
It was probably a month or so later that Alagappan came over to our place to say good-bye. “I’m off to spend 2 months with my son in Houston.” “What about your parrot?” my mother asked. “I’m taking him along.”
It was in the middle of summer that Alagappan returned. He came loaded with gifts of chocolates, which my mother immediately confiscated. “You know they make you erupt in pimples, and Usha’s son is visiting India next week. I want you to look your best. We’ll have you dressed in that new violet silk.” … I fled to my room and found consolation in U2 singing ‘If you wear that velvet dress. Ah, what a voice! What a song!
Though my mother had an agenda for me, I had my own dreams, in pursuit of which I was taking a killer exam the following week. Fuelled with a cup of espresso and a cigarette sneaked in the bathroom, I was staring at pages of boring figures and bar graphs when an unearthly shriek rent the air. I rushed to my balcony, hand at my throat, certain I would see someone’s neck being slit. Other folk ran out too, all gazing wildly hither and thither, looking for what seemed to be some unimaginable violence. The shrieking continued, and it suddenly struck me that the sounds were nothing but Kurt Cobain’ s ‘ Lithium’ being belted out with unimaginable energy, volume and tunelessness by a .. by a... parrot?!
I returned to my room, bemused. This was the Vedanta loving, Bhaja govindam singing Chellam. Ah well, people did change, I reflected, and hoped that this 2 am enthusiasm to burst in to song did not become a routine.
Unfortunately, it did become a routine. It seemed that the parrot’s inspiration to sing struck only past midnight. “He hasn’t recovered from jet lag.” Alagappan explained. “He dozes the whole day.” “Doesn’t it trouble you?” “Oh, no.” he smiled cheerfully. “I sleep when he does, and wake when he starts singing.”
Night after night, we were awoken by that damned insomniac bird bawling out it’s melodies at unearthly hours. Its repertoire was vast. Some days, it chose to sing sentimental love ballads. Other days, it was more aggressive and screeched ‘Stairway To Heaven’ with nail on black board dissonance.
This went on for another week, and our tempers, already stretched thin by the unrelenting heat, were further roused by the lack of sleep, the assault on our ears and the utter - how shall I put it - musiclessness of Chellam’s renditions.
An emergency building society meet was called to discuss the issue. “Bad things are happening in the building.” said the society chairperson, Palaniappan. “Decent citizens, deprived of their rightful sleep, are becoming corrupted by that devil in parrot’s shape.” “Corrupted? What does he mean?” I whispered to Kavita, my best friend. “I believe Rajasekhar is spending the nights in Ranjani’s house.” She whispered back. “Oh, the louse! Where is his wife?” “Visiting her parents. And that’s not all, the colonel is up to some hanky panky with the English lecturer.” “Tell me more.” I whisper, thrilled at all these goings on in our hitherto boring complex.
“Calling the meeting to order.” Palaniappan snapped, glaring at us. “There have been serious complaints from various members. Mr. Jagannathan?” “My wife is seven months pregnant, and we went for an ultra sound scan yesterday. The sonologist said that the baby was making unseemly gestures at him. I blame it all on the devil’s music that we are forced to hear every night.” “True, true. And my son is having nightmares.” Raghav said. “Well, at least he is sleeping. My daughter has been sleepless for a week.” “That’s probably because she is plotting to ensnare my son.” “Now, now Mrs Shanti. That is probably unfair.” This from the very quiet Ramamurthy. “Don’t you say anything to me, I saw you pinching the flower vendor’s well, cheek, yesterday.” “WHAT??” screamed Mrs. Ramamurthy. The level of conversation rapidly deteriorated to levels rarely heard even in the less civilised kindergartens in the city.
Palaniappan banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is adjourned with a resolution to do something about the parrot.”
Things got worse rapidly. My brief periods of sleep were ruined by unbelievably graphic dreams of taking the parrot’s spindly throat in my hand and slowly squeezing, until it became silent. Now - I had - indeed, I have nothing against our feathered friends per se, and I happen to be a rock fan myself. Why, I possess the complete collection of Def Leppard , cover versions included. But to have a jet-lagged parrot carol its interpretation of ‘Animal’ at 2am was enough to make the gentlest soul protest.
I was on my way to college one morning when I spotted Captain Mahesh creep furtively along the sixth floor corridor. This captain is a retired army doctor, the epitome of dignity and chivalry and I knew something was very wrong when I saw him sidle along like an embarrassed crab. “Captain” I called “What’s up?” He whirled around and glared at me with the malevolence born of sleep deprivation. I recoiled when I saw the wicked orange handled knife he tried to hide from me. “May I enquire what you are planning?” He looked around with a hunted expression. “I’m off to finish off that ***## bird. I haven’t slept for 13 days. I fear I am losing my mind.” “Captain, I am sure you don’t mean that. There must be a law about pet homicide and I sure don’t want you arrested. Why, you are the only gentleman in this building. We can’t afford to lose you! You go on home, I’ll take care of this, I promise.” I attempted a flirtatious look, and batted my eyelashes at him. He seemed impressed. “Ok, I’ll return home, but only because you are telling me to , my dear child. I would not do this for anyone else.” We spent a few more minutes giving each other meaningful glances and returned to our respective lairs.
Time passed and things got worse with Chellam mauling a new song every night. But, one day, matters came to a head when the parrot sang ‘Fields Of Gold’. ‘Fields of gold’ that my very first boyfriend crooned to me over subsidized cafeteria coffee. ‘Fields of gold’, which ensured I remained celibate for a long, long time because I ‘was saving myself for Sting.’ Was nothing sacred?
I resolved to take action against the parrot, and fast.
What to do, what to do? I wondered. We were desperate for a solution, but short of physically throwing Mr Alagappan and his parrot off the terrace, I couldn’t really think of anything else. Unless…oh yes. Anbarasi mami! Why hadn’t I thought about her before?
The only time I had approached this lady was in my 12th grade, when I had been attacked by a virulent form of infatuation for my lanky, richly pimpled, maths professor. A friend recommended Anbarasi, and I shelled out a year’s savings to this obese, oily woman, who operated from a small cart next to the last bonda stall on the marina. She gave me an opaque white solution, which she asked me to feed to my beloved. It would ensure his undying adoration for me, she claimed. I’m sure it would have worked, but he succumbed to a bad attack of dysentery after drinking the potion diluted in Limca . And no, I don’t think my love potion can be blamed. Anyway, it was worth a try.
I took the cash I had been saving for a Roland keyboard and made my way to the marina. There was Anbarasi, fatter, and if possible, oilier than ever. I explained the situation to her. “Five thousand rupees.” she said. With a wince, I handed the cash over. She gave me a glistening green liquid. “It is called satvam. It will ensure your parrot starts behaving himself.” Now, it only remained to convince Alagappan to feed this to his parrot.
I entered his flat, and was rewarded by the sight of the parrot, dozing, a miniature fan blowing a cool breeze on it’s sleeping form and ruffling it’s feathers. “Sit down, Radhika, sit down.” I wedged my abundance in to the tiny chair normally occupied by the Alagappan posterior. I could feel the circulation to my lower limbs being cut off, but bigger issues than personal comfort were at stake here.
“Uncle, I so miss the Chellam of old. He was such a cultured little bird, singing devotional songs. What corrupted him?” “I don’t think he is corrupted. One has to move with the times.” said Alagappan. He then attempted the twist, singing ‘We are the Champions’ in double time. I gazed up at him, spellbound by the most revolting spectacle I had seen in my whole life. Fortunately, Alagappan caught sight of himself in the mirror. “My god, do I look like that??”
“Unfortunately, yes. And Chellam’s singing is the verbal equivalent of what you just saw.” “But what do I do? How do I make him revert to the old, god fearing soul?” “I can help. Just make him drink this.” I gave him the satvam. “It won’t harm him, will it? Promise me nothing will happen to my Chellam.” He murmured brokenly. “Come on, uncle. Don’t you trust me?”
He prodded the parrot awake, and when it was gazing around sleepily, getting it’s bearings, he forced satvam down its throat.
I am happy to say that this story had a happy conclusion. The parrot restricted itself to singing bhajans in the afternoon, Rajasekhar returned to his wife and the captain gave up ideas of homicide.
I bought my keyboards, and am now practicing every single waking moment.
I am considered a heroine by every one in our building.
Why, just 5 minutes ago, Rajasekhar from downstairs came to me with a glass of some magical concoction which he assures me will make my fingers even more nimble on the keyboards. There it lies on my table, shining in the evening light, with just one message in its magenta depths – “Drink me, Drink me ….”
We were one of those typical , so often caricatured apartment complexes – full of stolidly middle class families, energetically involved in each other’s lives, extremely right wing and righteous. Then how, how did we get drawn in to a web of attempted homicide, adultery and gang wars?
It all started with the parrot.
On the top floor of our building, strategically placed to catch the sunrise over Besant Nagar beach, there lived a kindly, mildly eccentric old widower, Mr. Alagappan. “How are you, Uncle?” I asked him one morning as we strolled around the 4-foot wide patch of withered grass we called our garden. “Lonely, my dear, lonely after my dear wife has left me. The house is so silent.” I wondered briefly if he was making a pass, but it was unlikely – he was ancient, toothless and completely benign. “Why don’t you get a pet? A parrot?” I suggested. “Good idea! I’ll think about it.” He said, smiling.
Mea culpa.
“Radhika, I followed your advice and bought a parrot. I’m forever in your debt, my dear. What an intelligent companion I have found! I discuss musical theory with him, and corporate law, and I swear he understands every word. Would you like to come up and meet him?” “Sure.” We walk up to his messy flat. “What have you called him?” “Chellam.” “Hey, Chellam chweety, chweety, say hello.” The parrot fixed me with a beady eye and looked terribly affronted. “Don’t talk to him in baby speak. It insults his intelligence.” Old Alagappan hissed from behind me. I tried again.
“Good afternoon, Chellam. Very pleased to meet you. And how are you today, sir?”
The parrot grinned. “Stop chattering, woman, and get me some food.” “You’re teaching him to be a chauvinist, Uncle.” I said, as I left their house. I felt a warm halo beginning at the top of my head. This was good for at least twenty credit points with the accounting angel who my mother assured me was sitting on a cloud and keeping track of everything we do.
It was probably a month or so later that Alagappan came over to our place to say good-bye. “I’m off to spend 2 months with my son in Houston.” “What about your parrot?” my mother asked. “I’m taking him along.”
It was in the middle of summer that Alagappan returned. He came loaded with gifts of chocolates, which my mother immediately confiscated. “You know they make you erupt in pimples, and Usha’s son is visiting India next week. I want you to look your best. We’ll have you dressed in that new violet silk.” … I fled to my room and found consolation in U2 singing ‘If you wear that velvet dress. Ah, what a voice! What a song!
Though my mother had an agenda for me, I had my own dreams, in pursuit of which I was taking a killer exam the following week. Fuelled with a cup of espresso and a cigarette sneaked in the bathroom, I was staring at pages of boring figures and bar graphs when an unearthly shriek rent the air. I rushed to my balcony, hand at my throat, certain I would see someone’s neck being slit. Other folk ran out too, all gazing wildly hither and thither, looking for what seemed to be some unimaginable violence. The shrieking continued, and it suddenly struck me that the sounds were nothing but Kurt Cobain’ s ‘ Lithium’ being belted out with unimaginable energy, volume and tunelessness by a .. by a... parrot?!
I returned to my room, bemused. This was the Vedanta loving, Bhaja govindam singing Chellam. Ah well, people did change, I reflected, and hoped that this 2 am enthusiasm to burst in to song did not become a routine.
Unfortunately, it did become a routine. It seemed that the parrot’s inspiration to sing struck only past midnight. “He hasn’t recovered from jet lag.” Alagappan explained. “He dozes the whole day.” “Doesn’t it trouble you?” “Oh, no.” he smiled cheerfully. “I sleep when he does, and wake when he starts singing.”
Night after night, we were awoken by that damned insomniac bird bawling out it’s melodies at unearthly hours. Its repertoire was vast. Some days, it chose to sing sentimental love ballads. Other days, it was more aggressive and screeched ‘Stairway To Heaven’ with nail on black board dissonance.
This went on for another week, and our tempers, already stretched thin by the unrelenting heat, were further roused by the lack of sleep, the assault on our ears and the utter - how shall I put it - musiclessness of Chellam’s renditions.
An emergency building society meet was called to discuss the issue. “Bad things are happening in the building.” said the society chairperson, Palaniappan. “Decent citizens, deprived of their rightful sleep, are becoming corrupted by that devil in parrot’s shape.” “Corrupted? What does he mean?” I whispered to Kavita, my best friend. “I believe Rajasekhar is spending the nights in Ranjani’s house.” She whispered back. “Oh, the louse! Where is his wife?” “Visiting her parents. And that’s not all, the colonel is up to some hanky panky with the English lecturer.” “Tell me more.” I whisper, thrilled at all these goings on in our hitherto boring complex.
“Calling the meeting to order.” Palaniappan snapped, glaring at us. “There have been serious complaints from various members. Mr. Jagannathan?” “My wife is seven months pregnant, and we went for an ultra sound scan yesterday. The sonologist said that the baby was making unseemly gestures at him. I blame it all on the devil’s music that we are forced to hear every night.” “True, true. And my son is having nightmares.” Raghav said. “Well, at least he is sleeping. My daughter has been sleepless for a week.” “That’s probably because she is plotting to ensnare my son.” “Now, now Mrs Shanti. That is probably unfair.” This from the very quiet Ramamurthy. “Don’t you say anything to me, I saw you pinching the flower vendor’s well, cheek, yesterday.” “WHAT??” screamed Mrs. Ramamurthy. The level of conversation rapidly deteriorated to levels rarely heard even in the less civilised kindergartens in the city.
Palaniappan banged his fist on the table. “This meeting is adjourned with a resolution to do something about the parrot.”
Things got worse rapidly. My brief periods of sleep were ruined by unbelievably graphic dreams of taking the parrot’s spindly throat in my hand and slowly squeezing, until it became silent. Now - I had - indeed, I have nothing against our feathered friends per se, and I happen to be a rock fan myself. Why, I possess the complete collection of Def Leppard , cover versions included. But to have a jet-lagged parrot carol its interpretation of ‘Animal’ at 2am was enough to make the gentlest soul protest.
I was on my way to college one morning when I spotted Captain Mahesh creep furtively along the sixth floor corridor. This captain is a retired army doctor, the epitome of dignity and chivalry and I knew something was very wrong when I saw him sidle along like an embarrassed crab. “Captain” I called “What’s up?” He whirled around and glared at me with the malevolence born of sleep deprivation. I recoiled when I saw the wicked orange handled knife he tried to hide from me. “May I enquire what you are planning?” He looked around with a hunted expression. “I’m off to finish off that ***## bird. I haven’t slept for 13 days. I fear I am losing my mind.” “Captain, I am sure you don’t mean that. There must be a law about pet homicide and I sure don’t want you arrested. Why, you are the only gentleman in this building. We can’t afford to lose you! You go on home, I’ll take care of this, I promise.” I attempted a flirtatious look, and batted my eyelashes at him. He seemed impressed. “Ok, I’ll return home, but only because you are telling me to , my dear child. I would not do this for anyone else.” We spent a few more minutes giving each other meaningful glances and returned to our respective lairs.
Time passed and things got worse with Chellam mauling a new song every night. But, one day, matters came to a head when the parrot sang ‘Fields Of Gold’. ‘Fields of gold’ that my very first boyfriend crooned to me over subsidized cafeteria coffee. ‘Fields of gold’, which ensured I remained celibate for a long, long time because I ‘was saving myself for Sting.’ Was nothing sacred?
I resolved to take action against the parrot, and fast.
What to do, what to do? I wondered. We were desperate for a solution, but short of physically throwing Mr Alagappan and his parrot off the terrace, I couldn’t really think of anything else. Unless…oh yes. Anbarasi mami! Why hadn’t I thought about her before?
The only time I had approached this lady was in my 12th grade, when I had been attacked by a virulent form of infatuation for my lanky, richly pimpled, maths professor. A friend recommended Anbarasi, and I shelled out a year’s savings to this obese, oily woman, who operated from a small cart next to the last bonda stall on the marina. She gave me an opaque white solution, which she asked me to feed to my beloved. It would ensure his undying adoration for me, she claimed. I’m sure it would have worked, but he succumbed to a bad attack of dysentery after drinking the potion diluted in Limca . And no, I don’t think my love potion can be blamed. Anyway, it was worth a try.
I took the cash I had been saving for a Roland keyboard and made my way to the marina. There was Anbarasi, fatter, and if possible, oilier than ever. I explained the situation to her. “Five thousand rupees.” she said. With a wince, I handed the cash over. She gave me a glistening green liquid. “It is called satvam. It will ensure your parrot starts behaving himself.” Now, it only remained to convince Alagappan to feed this to his parrot.
I entered his flat, and was rewarded by the sight of the parrot, dozing, a miniature fan blowing a cool breeze on it’s sleeping form and ruffling it’s feathers. “Sit down, Radhika, sit down.” I wedged my abundance in to the tiny chair normally occupied by the Alagappan posterior. I could feel the circulation to my lower limbs being cut off, but bigger issues than personal comfort were at stake here.
“Uncle, I so miss the Chellam of old. He was such a cultured little bird, singing devotional songs. What corrupted him?” “I don’t think he is corrupted. One has to move with the times.” said Alagappan. He then attempted the twist, singing ‘We are the Champions’ in double time. I gazed up at him, spellbound by the most revolting spectacle I had seen in my whole life. Fortunately, Alagappan caught sight of himself in the mirror. “My god, do I look like that??”
“Unfortunately, yes. And Chellam’s singing is the verbal equivalent of what you just saw.” “But what do I do? How do I make him revert to the old, god fearing soul?” “I can help. Just make him drink this.” I gave him the satvam. “It won’t harm him, will it? Promise me nothing will happen to my Chellam.” He murmured brokenly. “Come on, uncle. Don’t you trust me?”
He prodded the parrot awake, and when it was gazing around sleepily, getting it’s bearings, he forced satvam down its throat.
I am happy to say that this story had a happy conclusion. The parrot restricted itself to singing bhajans in the afternoon, Rajasekhar returned to his wife and the captain gave up ideas of homicide.
I bought my keyboards, and am now practicing every single waking moment.
I am considered a heroine by every one in our building.
Why, just 5 minutes ago, Rajasekhar from downstairs came to me with a glass of some magical concoction which he assures me will make my fingers even more nimble on the keyboards. There it lies on my table, shining in the evening light, with just one message in its magenta depths – “Drink me, Drink me ….”
Come, unfalteringly
Come unfalteringly
I am lying in bed in the MICU and I know that I am going to die. How do I know? It is not the way my wife’s eyes slide away from mine or the sadness in my son’s hello or the compassion in the doctor’s voice as he greets me. There is something else, something that tells a man that it is almost over. I am alone and I do not want to be. I ask the nurse to send in my son.
He comes in and I see he has been crying. “Rohit.” “Yes, dad.” “How is your mom holding up?” “Ok, I guess. We are trying to get her to sleep.”
“Can you sit here with me?” I ask. “Why?”
It is difficult to tell my son that I am scared shitless, but death has a way, somehow, of vanquishing pride. “I’m… I’m afraid.” There, the words are out and my son is looking at me, embarrassed, worried, a little unsure about how to behave in the face of this role reversal. But he is a brave boy, my teenager, and he sits on the bed next to me and holds my hand.
“Dad, does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?”
“No, Rohit, I’m ok. Just a little lonely and these monitors are maddening me.”
This white lie reassures my son. He looks around at the humming machinery keeping track of my life and grins companionably at me.
“They are all worried, dad. I wish you could see how many people have come to see you.” Rohit seems to expect me to be happy at the number of people who have come to visit but it does not really matter to me now. I am content to lie on this bed alone except for my son beside me, his hand in mine. We watch the doctor go on rounds, calm and kind. He is young but he seems to know what he is doing. I wonder, are doctors afraid of death? Having confronted and fought death so many times are they able to handle it better than the rest of us?
I finish my rounds in the intensive care unit, reach my cabin and sit down, exhausted. One of my patients is dying slowly. There are some things your training does not prepare you for. Dealing with the death of a patient is one of them. In spite of stretching to the absolute limits of your skill, the available technology, the patient’s endurance, there are times when you have to give up. It is humiliating, demoralizing.
Some one knocks on the door and interrupts my black reflection. “Mrs. Kumar, please sit down.” “You wanted to talk to me, doctor.” “Yes.” I reply, wondering how to say what I must say, gently. “We have been treating your husband quite aggressively, Mrs. Kumar, but…” “But there is not much hope, is there?” “I’m afraid not.” I pause for a moment, reluctant to speak, but this issue has to be raised. “I think it is time for us to discuss how far you want us to go.”
Mrs. Kumar is sitting very straight. “I have discussed this with my husband, doctor. He doesn’t want to be intubated or mechanically ventilated.” “Are you quite sure?” “Yes doctor, we’ve thought about it.” Her face crumples and she begins to cry. Any words I say now will be meaningless. All I can do is hold her hand until she calms down a little.
“I’m all right. Doctor, I’ll go and sit with Vasanth for a while.”
My wife has been sitting next to me pretending I will soon be okay. I want to tell her “Look I know that you know that I am going to die. Why hide from reality?”
But perhaps we have been taught for too long to utter only socially acceptable truths and I am unable to say what I am thinking to my companion of twenty years. “I’ll be back soon.” she says, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fear and my pointless questions.
Like, for example, what have I accomplished in my forty years of life? I have written a couple of stories, cringed at bad reviews, floated on good ones. Ultimately, though, what is the use of what I have written? Perhaps I have made people think, smile, cry. It is what I aimed to do through my writing. But of what use it is in the end?
I watch my doctor at work. Now he can look back and say, “I have healed. I have relieved pain.”
I am sitting at my desk and trying not to remember Mrs. Kumar’s tears. I have studied eight years to become a physician. I have used technology and a few skills to heal people. I have been blessed by my patients, been looked up to with respect, with gratitude. I have taken all the good will as my due.
But now I am standing in the cold white of a room where my patient and his family are waiting for approaching death and I am frightened.
I remember my teacher saying “you need courage to be a doctor’ Kedar. Courage to fight for life - and to accept death.”
Courage… courage is what Mr. Kumar needs as he lies in bed and waits for that final end to pain. Where does he find it?
I am escaping in to the memory of an evening many years ago, when I was a confused teenager, full of smoky ideas of beauty and poetry that would not be written. It was on a trip to the Western Ghats.
I recall that evening so distinctly - sitting at the edge of the peak, with the velvet forests rolling below us, cloaked sometimes by the amethyst twilight mist. The air was full of the twittering of birds and insects and activity.
Then suddenly everything grew silent and it was dark. A moonless silky night fell upon us like a spell. We were all silenced by the abrupt fall of days end in to night.
I let my head fall back and felt vertiginous at the expanse of the sky around us- the sense of falling in to the stars. I remember thinking then, that I had experienced all the beauty that the world had to offer and that I would be content to die at that very instant.
I have had a few moments like that, haven’t I? Experiences that grabbed me so completely that I ceased to exist. Maybe there would have been more if I had been more aware. Aware of the patterns in the heart of the flower, of the million subtle nighttime perfumes of my village. If I had listened with more attention, perhaps I would have perceived all the hidden melodies in every song that I just half heard - a background to the white noise in my brain. I am hurting, thinking of all that I have failed to see and hear, when the doctor walks in. He examines me, asks me if there is anything I need. I smile a negative and he leaves, pausing to say “I am always on call. Buzz me if you need me.”
The calm acceptance with which Mr. Kumar faces his fear helps me a little. I am standing in the waiting room looking through the window at the lit up city below and thinking about the battles that we all fight.
I look at the people waiting. Some of them are sobbing quietly, some are gazing unseeingly in to space, some are looking resigned. Does the fact that I have tried to help them justify my existence? Perhaps not - maybe it is enough that I have never run away from a battle, never cheated and always done my best. Maybe.
I am lost in thought and I am startled when I am paged. “Bed 5 has arrested.” The nurse in charge says as I run in to the MICU. We successfully resuscitate the patient, and I watch the heartbeat reappear on the monitor, feel the pulse get stronger. I am feeling all the while that this is what I was born for, here is where I belong.
Before leaving, I pause for a moment at Mr. Kumar’s bed. He seems to be listening to music on his Walkman and I do not want to disturb him, I wonder is he is asleep.
I cannot sleep. I am listening to Mozart’s 20th concerto. There is such grandeur in it. In the music of course, but in the process of my listening to it as well.
Consider this. Mozart heard some poetry in his brain and played it on the piano.
Four hundred years later today what is happening? Rivers plunge down mountains to rotate huge wheels and release electricity. This decodes patterns buried in magnetic dust to liberate sound that strikes my ear. Three tiny bones tremble and the sound is translated in to the language of the neuron - electricity that blurs through my brain, echoes in my head. And who knows? Maybe these words that I have written today will echo in the cathedral of another human’s mind.
I return to the MICU. I watch as an elderly social worker walks in. She stops by a patient, places her hand on his forehead and says. “You will get better child, I am sure you will. God bless you.”
The patient looks up at her with faith. Perhaps she has done more with her gentle trust than I have done with all my pills. Ah well, we all have to choose our methods of healing and I have chosen medicine.
But some times, I have doubts about what I am doing. For instance, are these advances we have made in medicine fundamentally any good? We relieve pain, prolong life perhaps. However, we also lengthen the process of dying. What was once but a single instant of anguish is now drawn in to days of waiting and hopelessly hoping and hurting.
Is it worth it? Is it not cruel to make a human go through what Mr. Kumar is experiencing now? To make a man handle an unhandleable fear? What can a man think about in these last few conscious moments?
I am thinking about the last note. Like a gymnast’s final leap and touch down, the last note summarizes the entire performance. How does the musician decide what it is going to be? Some songs end with a gentle ‘yes of course.’ some with a triumphal head flung upwards ‘yeah!’ Some are left hanging, as if the composer is trying to say that the song is not over yet.
So much music and so many, many beautiful moments.
It’s been a good life, God, and I would not ask for more. No - not even more time. Perhaps I will pray for courage as I lie in the unchanging light, waiting. Thinking about life and death, thinking about dying. Wondering, when death finally comes, how will she come?
…Unfalteringly.
I am lying in bed in the MICU and I know that I am going to die. How do I know? It is not the way my wife’s eyes slide away from mine or the sadness in my son’s hello or the compassion in the doctor’s voice as he greets me. There is something else, something that tells a man that it is almost over. I am alone and I do not want to be. I ask the nurse to send in my son.
He comes in and I see he has been crying. “Rohit.” “Yes, dad.” “How is your mom holding up?” “Ok, I guess. We are trying to get her to sleep.”
“Can you sit here with me?” I ask. “Why?”
It is difficult to tell my son that I am scared shitless, but death has a way, somehow, of vanquishing pride. “I’m… I’m afraid.” There, the words are out and my son is looking at me, embarrassed, worried, a little unsure about how to behave in the face of this role reversal. But he is a brave boy, my teenager, and he sits on the bed next to me and holds my hand.
“Dad, does it hurt? Should I call the doctor?”
“No, Rohit, I’m ok. Just a little lonely and these monitors are maddening me.”
This white lie reassures my son. He looks around at the humming machinery keeping track of my life and grins companionably at me.
“They are all worried, dad. I wish you could see how many people have come to see you.” Rohit seems to expect me to be happy at the number of people who have come to visit but it does not really matter to me now. I am content to lie on this bed alone except for my son beside me, his hand in mine. We watch the doctor go on rounds, calm and kind. He is young but he seems to know what he is doing. I wonder, are doctors afraid of death? Having confronted and fought death so many times are they able to handle it better than the rest of us?
I finish my rounds in the intensive care unit, reach my cabin and sit down, exhausted. One of my patients is dying slowly. There are some things your training does not prepare you for. Dealing with the death of a patient is one of them. In spite of stretching to the absolute limits of your skill, the available technology, the patient’s endurance, there are times when you have to give up. It is humiliating, demoralizing.
Some one knocks on the door and interrupts my black reflection. “Mrs. Kumar, please sit down.” “You wanted to talk to me, doctor.” “Yes.” I reply, wondering how to say what I must say, gently. “We have been treating your husband quite aggressively, Mrs. Kumar, but…” “But there is not much hope, is there?” “I’m afraid not.” I pause for a moment, reluctant to speak, but this issue has to be raised. “I think it is time for us to discuss how far you want us to go.”
Mrs. Kumar is sitting very straight. “I have discussed this with my husband, doctor. He doesn’t want to be intubated or mechanically ventilated.” “Are you quite sure?” “Yes doctor, we’ve thought about it.” Her face crumples and she begins to cry. Any words I say now will be meaningless. All I can do is hold her hand until she calms down a little.
“I’m all right. Doctor, I’ll go and sit with Vasanth for a while.”
My wife has been sitting next to me pretending I will soon be okay. I want to tell her “Look I know that you know that I am going to die. Why hide from reality?”
But perhaps we have been taught for too long to utter only socially acceptable truths and I am unable to say what I am thinking to my companion of twenty years. “I’ll be back soon.” she says, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my fear and my pointless questions.
Like, for example, what have I accomplished in my forty years of life? I have written a couple of stories, cringed at bad reviews, floated on good ones. Ultimately, though, what is the use of what I have written? Perhaps I have made people think, smile, cry. It is what I aimed to do through my writing. But of what use it is in the end?
I watch my doctor at work. Now he can look back and say, “I have healed. I have relieved pain.”
I am sitting at my desk and trying not to remember Mrs. Kumar’s tears. I have studied eight years to become a physician. I have used technology and a few skills to heal people. I have been blessed by my patients, been looked up to with respect, with gratitude. I have taken all the good will as my due.
But now I am standing in the cold white of a room where my patient and his family are waiting for approaching death and I am frightened.
I remember my teacher saying “you need courage to be a doctor’ Kedar. Courage to fight for life - and to accept death.”
Courage… courage is what Mr. Kumar needs as he lies in bed and waits for that final end to pain. Where does he find it?
I am escaping in to the memory of an evening many years ago, when I was a confused teenager, full of smoky ideas of beauty and poetry that would not be written. It was on a trip to the Western Ghats.
I recall that evening so distinctly - sitting at the edge of the peak, with the velvet forests rolling below us, cloaked sometimes by the amethyst twilight mist. The air was full of the twittering of birds and insects and activity.
Then suddenly everything grew silent and it was dark. A moonless silky night fell upon us like a spell. We were all silenced by the abrupt fall of days end in to night.
I let my head fall back and felt vertiginous at the expanse of the sky around us- the sense of falling in to the stars. I remember thinking then, that I had experienced all the beauty that the world had to offer and that I would be content to die at that very instant.
I have had a few moments like that, haven’t I? Experiences that grabbed me so completely that I ceased to exist. Maybe there would have been more if I had been more aware. Aware of the patterns in the heart of the flower, of the million subtle nighttime perfumes of my village. If I had listened with more attention, perhaps I would have perceived all the hidden melodies in every song that I just half heard - a background to the white noise in my brain. I am hurting, thinking of all that I have failed to see and hear, when the doctor walks in. He examines me, asks me if there is anything I need. I smile a negative and he leaves, pausing to say “I am always on call. Buzz me if you need me.”
The calm acceptance with which Mr. Kumar faces his fear helps me a little. I am standing in the waiting room looking through the window at the lit up city below and thinking about the battles that we all fight.
I look at the people waiting. Some of them are sobbing quietly, some are gazing unseeingly in to space, some are looking resigned. Does the fact that I have tried to help them justify my existence? Perhaps not - maybe it is enough that I have never run away from a battle, never cheated and always done my best. Maybe.
I am lost in thought and I am startled when I am paged. “Bed 5 has arrested.” The nurse in charge says as I run in to the MICU. We successfully resuscitate the patient, and I watch the heartbeat reappear on the monitor, feel the pulse get stronger. I am feeling all the while that this is what I was born for, here is where I belong.
Before leaving, I pause for a moment at Mr. Kumar’s bed. He seems to be listening to music on his Walkman and I do not want to disturb him, I wonder is he is asleep.
I cannot sleep. I am listening to Mozart’s 20th concerto. There is such grandeur in it. In the music of course, but in the process of my listening to it as well.
Consider this. Mozart heard some poetry in his brain and played it on the piano.
Four hundred years later today what is happening? Rivers plunge down mountains to rotate huge wheels and release electricity. This decodes patterns buried in magnetic dust to liberate sound that strikes my ear. Three tiny bones tremble and the sound is translated in to the language of the neuron - electricity that blurs through my brain, echoes in my head. And who knows? Maybe these words that I have written today will echo in the cathedral of another human’s mind.
I return to the MICU. I watch as an elderly social worker walks in. She stops by a patient, places her hand on his forehead and says. “You will get better child, I am sure you will. God bless you.”
The patient looks up at her with faith. Perhaps she has done more with her gentle trust than I have done with all my pills. Ah well, we all have to choose our methods of healing and I have chosen medicine.
But some times, I have doubts about what I am doing. For instance, are these advances we have made in medicine fundamentally any good? We relieve pain, prolong life perhaps. However, we also lengthen the process of dying. What was once but a single instant of anguish is now drawn in to days of waiting and hopelessly hoping and hurting.
Is it worth it? Is it not cruel to make a human go through what Mr. Kumar is experiencing now? To make a man handle an unhandleable fear? What can a man think about in these last few conscious moments?
I am thinking about the last note. Like a gymnast’s final leap and touch down, the last note summarizes the entire performance. How does the musician decide what it is going to be? Some songs end with a gentle ‘yes of course.’ some with a triumphal head flung upwards ‘yeah!’ Some are left hanging, as if the composer is trying to say that the song is not over yet.
So much music and so many, many beautiful moments.
It’s been a good life, God, and I would not ask for more. No - not even more time. Perhaps I will pray for courage as I lie in the unchanging light, waiting. Thinking about life and death, thinking about dying. Wondering, when death finally comes, how will she come?
…Unfalteringly.
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