My roses...

I got up today and stepped out to pick up the newspaper. It was a beautiful, crisp winter morning – the kind of morning when you can’t help but take a deep breath and immerse yourself in the scent of freshness. Next to the pillar of my front porch grows a rose bush that I had planted 12 years ago when we first moved in to this house. She had brought forth a half dozen roses of a red so stunning that it brought a smile to my face. I gently tug at a stem bringing down the rose close so that I can inhale her scent. It is subtle but all-pervading and I don’t want to let go. This is also the only rose plant I have with hardly any thorns. I love it because it is my one success story when it comes to flowering plants. I love it because it is a rose plant like no other.

I think back of myself as I entered my shiny new house all those years ago. I was excited. I was also pregnant and very skinny. Despite being tired nearly all the time (I never fare well in pregnancies) I took delight in choosing things for the house. I planted a drumstick tree in the backyard, a little mango sapling and curry leaf plants. There were days when I couldn’t do more than lie down after the incessant throwing up. All through it I felt it was the house that gave me strength. Within its walls I was safe and through its windows I would watch and see how my garden prospered.

When the baby came, she was a delight. She slept through the night from the moment we got her home and grew up with her brother in as much harmony as one could expect. They played by the rose plant running barefoot on the grass. I still have a picture of Mahi as a baby smiling next to a huge rose that seemed to be smiling too.

My rose plant is like another child to me. She is always there – in any season. I cut off her withered blooms inexpertly. I don’t feed her well but I do water her. I stroke her. I talk to her. In turn she gives me such joy with her mere presence. I have been told she is lanky and not bush-like. She climbs too high. She tries to peek in through the bedroom window. She looks awkward. But I don’t want to cut her too much. To me she is tall and stately and every single branch ends in a rose that is nothing less than perfect.

When you love someone or something, don’t try to change them or it. Leave them be to grow as they like. Watch them blossom. If they love you back, you will never feel the prick of thorns. If they don’t, then you move away but you never stop loving them for a moment. Let them grow without you. Stay away from the thorns. They will only draw your blood to grow stronger.

My roses are as red as blood itself but they are the red of unselfish beauty. I hope they bloom for me as long as I am able to see them.

Hear the rhythm

The ticking of the clock reminds me it is time to go to bed. I have to shower and snuggle under my quilt with a book. I then have to sleep and wake up at 6 to start another day. The ticking doesn’t stop however. It goes on and on – relentless and unforgiving. Time moves. It fills in me the anxiety to move as well. If I sit still, I feel guilty. Yet there are many moments when I am less than productive or I feel I have achieved nothing despite trying awfully hard. The ticking builds pressure. So much time is gone. You know not how much you have left. Do more. Be more. Fie on you if you stop.

I sit and type aimlessly and watch my words come together. Black on white. Tonight is a night where I feel calm despite the ticking that grows louder when all else is so silent. I have stopped measuring myself by the successes or failures that have been my life. I try and count only the moments where I believe I have made a difference. It could be to a family member or a complete stranger. It could be to a friend or someone who no longer is one. It could be to someone who calls up asking for help or advice or just a listening ear.

No one is indispensable. The ticking should teach us all that. So many moments since the beginning of time. Does anyone remember all those who were? Even if you were famous once, you will now be mostly forgotten. Time is inexorable. It is cyclic. What once was might be so again. There is no lasting significance to your so-called achievements, the money you make, the cars you drive, the boasts you manage to pepper your conversation with, the names you drop to be a celebrity by association. What is of some import is the imprint you leave on a heart. And you do that only through love. Not through force.

The clock ticks on as I type the thoughts that gather in my mind. I think back to my father who knew how to love with such heart that I will never forget him. The people he touched still talk of him, more than a dozen years after his passing. He was not a successful man or a rich one. The ticking of the clock did not urge him to make money. He tried instead to be a good man – a better man than most.

Time always moves on. What it leaves in its wake should be memories of a life that was lived with some passion, some joy, some sorrow and a whole lot of courage. It should not mark time for a relentless rat race. Too few realize that the ticking of the clock is not the beat to an endless march, it is the rhythm of the background score that runs through your life like a rich melody. I hear the rhythm when I am silent as I am now. Have you ever heard yours?

Shadows of friendships

Looking back over days spent with happiness or sadness, you can draw a map of sorts. You associate certain spaces with joy and some with consternation or embarrassment or anger. You associate the development of a relationship with little milestones. These milestones may be of your memories alone; the other may not even have noticed. In a relationship, it is often the small things that you notice about the other that leave the greatest impression upon you. It is the memory of these small, thoughtful, almost unconscious gestures that revive you when you think that there really is nothing left in that relationship that is worth keeping. When even the gestures stop however, the memories between you and the other fade away to nothing.

Occasionally you learn harsh lessons from people who at first appear to be the epitome of niceness. Sooner or later the façade of niceness shatters and what is revealed is a selfish, needy, egoistic inner self. More often though it is those you love who teach you harsher lessons. Certain words that come tumbling forth reveal a side that you would not have known had existed. Certain actions show that the gems of memories and moments that you have collected as treasures along the way are as valueless as old cobwebs. I find myself more often than not being the one who ends up with strings of sticky cobwebs all around me. Others always move on and yes for a certain type of person moving on is way more fun than being there.

Ask yourself why you make friends. Is it to pass time? Or is it a more meaningful exercise in order to share a journey that might not be along the same path but close enough that you can care? I make friends with great difficulty. Actually, I make friends easily enough but the trouble I have is with keeping them. Some of the friends I most cared about don’t stay within a reasonable distance anymore. Some of the friends of my college days have no longer the title of actual friends because we are so different from who we were when we were young. Life beat out of me whatever little lightness I possessed so that now, today, I find myself too ponderously weighed to attempt to make new friends.

I look back on my life and find I truly have only a handful of people in my life I can call friends. It is a sad testimonial to a life led in three countries. I find myself unable to even think of letting a person into my life. It is a surefire way to get hurt at some level or the other. At best it would be a way to get company when either of us needs it; at worst it will degrade to a status where I feel too much and get nothing in return. People do not have time for friends or any relationship that requires work. Its easy to take someone for granted. The tough part comes when you look around one day out of sheer habit and find nothing there, not even the memories of the words spoken or the shadows of gestures forever forgotten.

Explaining God

The other day an idle thought flashed in my mind – how would I explain religion to Appu? It intrigued S too and we both sat and mulled it over. For a child whose comprehension is limited to the real and experiential, how does the abstract make sense?

Appu knows math. He loves science. He can spell excellently. He knows how to make his own snacks. He knows how to love and laugh. He also knows what angers him and why. He feels anxiety. He knows sadness. He is an emotional child with a heart of gold. But he does not know of God. And I realized that I do not know how to teach him about God.

Well, I thought to myself, let me lay it out logically. I expect him to understand that which he cannot see, touch, smell, feel or hear. It is no use asking him to believe that the beauty of all creation is attributable to an unseen force. He would simply stare in confusion. If I tell him that God will protect him even when his parents are no more, he would ask me where does God live, what kind of car does he drive, can God come to my house and endless such queries. He would also literally wait for God to arrive at his doorstep and keep an eye on him. He will ask me to show him pictures. Imagine having to google God and show him the results as I do with fractions or earthquakes or orangutans. In short, there is no logical way I can explain to a child with autism, the idea of God. And then I have to ask myself - why should you know of the idea of God to be the best person you can be?

Appu is the epitome of simplicity. He has all the characteristics of a good human being – lovability, generosity, inner joy without having any of the characteristics like envy, pride, vanity or egoistical arrogance that mar essential human nature. If I cannot explain God to him, how do I explain God at all? That being the case, why is it that this nebulous concept has created rifts among human beings – rifts of the sort that no one can bridge, rifts of the sort that see madmen opening fire on innocents including children, rifts of the sort that are made in the name of a compassionate and loving God? And how do I explain intolerance to him?

If the world were ruled by those with autism, it would be a far better place. It would be a world of discovery, of playfulness, of generosity. They would not see the logic in fighting over something that no one has ever seen. They would share their food with someone who has none. They would not mess up the world they live in. They would take joy in little things. On the days I wake up to headlines announcing death in a hundred different ways, I wish with all my heart that those instigating violence be given the understanding of children like my son. At least there would be no more killing over what one ate or how one chose to pray or how one decided to dress or whom one chose to make love to. The world could do a lot worse.

More heart...

You can write down whatever it is that is haunting you. You can attempt to express the tumultuous feelings that envelop you when you are least prepared. You can try and talk to someone to ease the pain just that little bit. The truth, however, is that you are alone in your pain, in your frustration, in the sheer intensity of your emotion.

How can another human being fathom the depths of turmoil within you? It is simply not possible. All of us view our world through different lenses. The lenses themselves are determined by age, upbringing, environment, health, stress and any number of other factors. When no two people perceive their world in the same way, it is safe to assume that no two people process stimuli in exactly the same way as well. So no one can understand another’s response especially to conditions that they themselves have not been put through.

The thing about wanting to communicate is that it is a very human trait. Everyone wants someone to talk to, to listen to, to care about, to be cared for by. And sometimes you and your loved one share a problem so deep that he or she can actually do nothing to assuage you. Indeed, how do you ask for consolation from someone who is going through the same pain you are albeit in a different manner?

That is why we have friends to turn to. Most usually I feel free to vent. But there are days that hit you so hard that you want to be understood without having to explain. You are embarrassed at feeling too much, at knowing that talking is futile, at wanting to simply not have to be this way any more. So talking too becomes difficult. And when it becomes difficult, the words convey less than nothing. You feel lonelier than ever.

To those who classify this as whining, I point out that a whiner never takes responsibility or acts. It is not my nature to be irresponsible or laze around. However, many things that fall to our lot are not choices at all. They are challenges that last a lifetime if we are unlucky and a few months if we are lucky. I hate platitudes and I absolutely hate the statement that ‘Five years from now this won’t matter’. Really? Platitudes from people who are impatient in a traffic jam, who think not having the right dress to wear classifies as an emergency, who believe that their child not getting 99% in some exam is the disaster of a century are utterly ridiculous. Five years from now you could ostensibly forget your less than perfect dress or an affair-having spouse but can you forget that your child faces progressively worse complications that threaten the quality of his life? So never say to anyone “it doesn’t matter”, “my aunt’s son has it worse so count yourself lucky” or “you will come out stronger for it”. Just shut the hell up and leave if you cannot stand in silent solidarity. Pain is ugly. Grief is uncomfortable. If you only have friends to have fun, then you don’t know the meaning of either friendship or love.

Like I said, we are each of us alone in our pain. If you have it in you to make a suffering soul feel even for a moment, some alleviation of agony, then you have heart. More heart makes all the difference…

Back to Back

Lying in bed yet again on a forced regime of rest due to my moody back muscles spasming for no discernible reason the third time in a month, I find myself stuck with chores and work piled high and no way to do any of them. My mother is home and so I don’t have to worry about food which is a plus. The kids always get upset when I cannot take them out or bake with them or even watch movies with them (sitting is not an option). So after a day of this enforced confinement I thought I would just get on with some writing. If the damn spasm continues its painful existence, I would just live with it. Easier said than done of course.

What continues to amaze me is the lack of solutions on offer for this problem which is only related to a weakening of muscles and nothing more at this point. I am told to avoid bending, lifting, standing for too long, sitting for too long and all sudden movements. How is one to live like that? Sudden movements are my thing. I like doing everything quickly. I asked the doctor for a way to strengthen my muscles and he said there were a few exercises I could do. He also gave me painkillers that have so far not managed to make an iota of difference. They must be too polite and self-effacing I fear.

Like the good girl that I (mostly) am, I did all the exercises scrupulously until yesterday when I got a spasm in the middle of doing them (yes really – how’s that for irony!) To those who have no idea what I mean by a spasm, it feels like a huge electric shock followed by pain that if given a physical form would resemble an octopus. When struck by spasm lightning, I first curse everything around me. I then attempt to turn to my side and end up failing and in worse pain right back where I started. Again to anyone who needs help with their imagination, at this point I look like a cockroach on its back flailing its limbs helplessly and unable to turn over. More cursing ensures. I take a deep breath which ensures that the pain stabs viciously and in slow motion, manage to turn to my side. Victory! Well, partial victory – now I have to push down on my palms to lift myself up. This is no walk in the park. But at this point I am angry and uncaring of pain and I simply push and raise myself up till I can move my feet to the floor and get up. Why should I get up instead of lying down when in pain? Well, I like to see if I can get up because after years of this wonderful experience I have a fear of not being able to get up one day.

The rest can be summed up in fifty shades of pain and I am not going to write all that down. What irks me is the fact that anything I do to strengthen these damn muscles just ends up hurting me more. The biggest spasm of my life was after a yoga session last month where the lady insisted on me bending forward when I had told her quite clearly I was not allowed to do it.

“Oh go ahead”, said she airily “Your back is strong enough now.”

I went ahead. The next few days were one constant “AAAAAAHHH!”

I have now figured out that even if I become corpulent I am to avoid any back exercise at all. I can walk as always but no more attempting to solve this puzzling problem. Its probably karma at work or something or perhaps I am some kind of catch-all giant if-then-else statement where all the 'elses' end up. In any case, my back and I have parted ways mentally many years ago and the resultant uneasy marriage between us is bound to be unpleasant to say the least. In a more technologically advanced world I could simply divorce this annoying part of me and get a better endowed replacement but sadly this is all the fates have in store for me ;) – karma yet again!

The superficial

As the years pass the one thing that I cannot seem to tolerate is the superficial. Now I know superficial is a qualifying word and not a noun but if you look around you today, what you encounter most is the superficial – it has become a noun for it is the default state in which many go through life. I don’t intend to sound preachy and talk of why it is important that people engage in more than a superficial level. It is not my business to judge or act holier-than-thou. I do however feel profound sadness when there is so much pain existent in this world that can be mitigated if only people can engage deeply with others.

There is no lack of money today. But our natural resources are dwindling. The distribution of wealth has never been more unequal. There appears to be too many needy and not enough willing to share. We have seen this state of affairs for long enough. It is certainly not going to change overnight. Why should you care? It does not directly affect you. You have a nice house, a car or cars, your kids go to a good school, you have power and indoor plumbing, you have so much food that you waste it just because you are not in the mood to eat something and would rather just order something else.

I am not saying that you should give up your activities and immerse yourself in social work. I only say that every single person can make a little difference to one other person’s life with hardly any effort. Over the years I have marveled at the generosity and caring I have received from people who did not have much to share. I have been surprised by the disdain people around me have shown when I spoke of even the simplest ways to help a cause. It is most often the noveau riche who forget to be human beings and what’s worse, raise their children to be ignorant of the sheer joy of sharing, instead passing on the tendency to boast and demand rather than the ability to love and give. Could there be a poorer legacy?

It is giving that makes us better people. The less people know of your giving, the greater the satisfaction of having done something that helps you grow. Giving solely for the sake of receiving appreciation is of no use. All of this however has to be taught at a young age. As you grow older your heart shrinks and becomes hard with the deposits of ego, arrogance and prejudice. Giving becomes difficult and one is filled with a sense of entitlement instead of gratitude.

I look around my neighbourhood everyday. I hear conversations that are steeped in snobbishness and a feeling that the disadvantaged have no place in our world. If the people here had instead decided that they would feed one child a day from a family that cannot afford it or perhaps buy schoolbooks for a needy child or even just be caring to someone who could use a good word, there would be so much change. Now imagine if a country could change like that and then the whole world. Would there be so many atrocities committed if we felt others had the right to the same things we do? Would we kill someone because they pray differently or eat differently? Would we sit back and watch girls being raped and do nothing? Would we close our doors to people fleeing from persecution? Would we look at a picture of a tiny little boy washed ashore on some beach and move on to something easier to handle without a qualm?

Caring is what is missing in our existence. Caring is what brings meaning. Caring is the foundation of tolerance. Caring is what we need to teach ourselves and our children – instead life seems to be all about the easy superficial…

Onam again....

Onam is my favourite festival. I have written many times how the sights and scents of Onam made me joyous as a young girl and later on as I had my own family. It is a festival of sharing. I loved making the traditional sadhya for my family and other loved ones. I would go to great lengths to prepare everything perfectly from dry roasting the coconut for a variety of dishes to eschewing store-bought masalas in favour of hand ground ones. It was a tradition I wanted to create. The tastes you hand down to your kids serve as the most vivid memories of childhood. Years later when you are not around to be with them, a whiff of some childhood memory will bring them comfort. Every year a few of my friends would come over to spend Onam day with us. This past year being one of bereavement, I cannot in good conscience celebrate the festival tomorrow. My husband is away in Europe. The kids and I are going to design a lavish pookalam and then go over to a friend’s house for lunch - simple and low key celebration unlike my normal one. There is a time for different kinds of Onam during a lifetime. The spirit of the festival however is always the same for me.

The symbolic idea of Onam is to celebrate a good harvest. In this day and age when practically nothing is grown in Kerala to warrant the tag of self-sufficiency, it is not harvest so much as prosperity that is celebrated. We are grateful for the abundance received and in showing our gratitude with generous feasts, we hope to make the coming year prosperous as well. The traditional celebrations of old are stories I have heard from others. The plucking of flowers like the pure white thumbapoovu, bright blue krishnapoovu, the deeper vibrant blue kakkapoovu and indeed any flower the children could lay their hands on to make the beautiful pookalams. The food prepared from vegetables and grains grown in the fields around the houses. The graceful kaikottikali dance that all the women of the house would engage in after the feast. The playing of games that are no longer in vogue. All the borrowed memories tell a tale of a simpler time when there truly was abundance in the land. Now the flowers and vegetables come from Tamil Nadu. The rice comes from Andhra Pradesh. The fields have given way to houses and high rises. Most of the children think Onam is merely a holiday to feast and burp.

In the midst of remembering the times past, its yet fruitful to be grateful for whatever we have in the present. Onam changes over the years but its vibrancy will never change. In the month of Chingam when the entire land looks its gorgeous best, when the scents of water lilies fill the air, when women look lovely in their cream and gold mundu-veshtis, when people open up to each other again simply because no one can be unhappy at Onam time, you fall in love with the spirit of this beautiful festival all over again. Happy Onam everyone!

Where are the teachers?

My eleven-year-old got me thinking this morning. It’s a Sunday but since she had a whole day of fun and enjoyment yesterday, I asked her to stop lounging about on the couch in the morning and start tackling a few concepts in science. I wanted her to list out things she had trouble with so we could learn more about them. She wasn’t exactly pleased to be ousted from the couch but she did do as I asked. While looking through her lessons, she started reciting her litany of complaints. The science teacher didn’t know squat. She yelled too much. She targeted children who asked questions. Her spellings were awful. Now I had heard some complaints about the social studies teacher as well – someone who kept saying a century meant ten years – which for a little kid is quite an eye-opener in terms of comprehending that the teacher actually made too many mistakes. I can see how disillusioned she is and how little respect she holds for a few teachers and that is truly sad.

My daughter is smart but her interest in any subject is totally dependent on the teacher who is in charge of it. I told her that she has the entire internet at her disposal. Learning can be so much more fun than the way we did it when I was a kid. So what if she didn’t have the best teachers? In her previous school she had equally incompetent teachers at twice the fees – how did it make a difference? She had her parents – S is a math whiz and I love English to the point of distraction – so why couldn’t she just ask us? That level of initiative was missing. She had to want to know things. She needed to learn how to pick up things on her own. She needed to enjoy learning.

Teachers migrate from one school to another for the salary. Yes it’s a tough job but it is also an important one. If you do not have the knowledge or ability to teach, you end up leaving the impression that teachers as a whole are a bunch of idiots who get into a cushy job for the vacation timings or simply because their child too goes to the same school and that makes things convenient. Teachers should be tested and certified every year – the kind of ignorance that is rampant among the teaching fraternity is an insult to the society as a whole. It happens because they are not questioned.

I have met a number of teachers in recent years who make me want to actually indulge in violence. I get circulars that are so full of errors I cannot make head or tail out of them. I have seen teachers who not only don’t know their subjects and sent their own kids for tuitions on the subjects they majored in but also hold regressive opinions which they foist on their students. I have seen many notebooks corrected wrongly so that I have to spend hours teaching my daughter that what was marked correct was in fact wrong. I have seen teachers using abusive language but have been powerless to intervene because the concerned parents were keeping quiet. I have seen parents suck up to teachers so that they have better grades than the rest. I have seen parents remember the teachers’ birthdays and send cakes to make that great impression.

If all of that is the hallmark of a good parent, then I obviously suck because I don’t know my daughters’ teachers by name nor do I ever compliment them on their appearance. For every meeting, I ask how she is doing and whether anything more is required of me as a parent. I am in and out of PTAs in 5 minutes. I don’t send my children for tuitions because teaching them is something I like doing (on some days ;))and it is a personal choice that I can indulge in now. Also tuitions are a way of making extra money for the same teachers who aren’t doing their job well at school. Of course there are a few teachers who are so good that just interacting with them is a pleasure but they are a minority.

The sad part of dealing with teachers who hate teaching is that its an utter waste of the child’s time. Imagine how wonderful it would be to awaken a child’s curiosity and illuminate her mind. The spark of dawning understanding is pure joy to witness. Teachers hold the future of a generation in their hands. Our former president Kalam was a fine teacher – one who believed in every child’s potential. As long as we look at teaching as just another job, we will never have truly inspired teachers and that is a damn shame.

Mirroring values

I have often wondered how the measure of a man or woman changes when that which we believed about them is shattered. I do not talk of expectations or perfectly flawless behavior towards us and us alone. I was thinking rather of how there are things that should be counted as components of character but these days are simply forgotten. If someone you are close to has a friend or loved one who makes no bones about being prejudiced about the colour of the skin, about holding views that are appallingly backward about women for someone supposedly educated, about thinking children who come from less than illustrious backgrounds or with difficulties cannot be in a classroom with other kids; how would you deal with the situation?

Is there no need to stand by a principle these days? You say you are not prejudiced and someone you glorify ill-treats others but not you and you are okay with that? How does that make sense I wonder? If the world had applauded and rewarded a South Africa that was promoting apartheid but that was always unfailingly polite otherwise, would that have been right? If you are not directly hurt by the venom of someone you choose to love, is it then alright to watch the subject of it getting hurt? A subject whom you had befriended?

There is no justice in most things in life. But of one thing I am certain - if a person I was close to uttered anything prejudicial about another friend, I would have stood up and defended the friend who was being judged. I would have lost a certain amount of respect for that person because prejudice is inexcusable. I would probably never look at that person the same way again. So even if you do not actually hurt someone yet stand and watch someone over whom you have influence hurt someone and do nothing, then you at some level are responsible for that hurt. If you put up with it, there is a part of you that agrees with that action. For if you do not agree, if you feel strongly against it, you cannot remain silent – you would speak out.

I am however blessed with a spouse and friends who are generous and broad-minded and thankfully have had only a few such bad experiences. There was one person whom I thought of as a friend who I found out had no compunction in tolerating anything as long as there was no direct consequence. There is no easier way to lose my trust. Not standing up for what is right shows superficiality of character. They who are happy with trappings and the ability to be distracted can get by in life very easily. And the sad thing is that this person epitomizes most of the well-off people I come across.  Have fun, enjoy life – ignore the difficulties of others and revel over your superiority because hell, you have the money!

Its simple really. If you have a friend who is sincere, they will not let someone else trash you or your work or your beliefs. They will not cultivate that relationship once the mask of civility has been lowered even for a split-second. The friends you have are a reflection of you when it comes to core values. If they aren’t, then you will learn the hard way that they really weren’t friends.

Such is life.

I went for a walk in the night. It was drizzling and chilly. I didn’t care. I walked because I wanted to cool down. I walked because I needed the fresh air to ease the burning ache. I walked because when you walk in the rain, no one can see your tears. I don’t know to solve that which is always before me. I have a few days where I can smile and laugh with my heart light and far enough from pain that I actually feel happy. But the rest of the days I just try to cope. There will always be a meltdown or an episode where my child is in a world of pain without a trigger of any kind. I am always on guard. I can never relax. My shoulders feel like they are so wound up they can never unwind. People tell me to chill. To take it easy. Yeah right. There is no easy for me or my son. Walking doesn’t change anything but it loosens some of the more painful knots so I can gulp in mouthfuls of air and remind myself that despite the terrible feeling inside, I am alive.

I came back and sat in the midst of people talking and laughing with no one knowing that all I wanted to do at that point was curl into a ball and try to keep that agonizing hurt under control. The hardest part is the need to put up a façade of cheerfulness. No one likes a sad face. Many would not understand why I am yet unused to these episodes. They will merely say – well you knew this might happen right – all you can do is deal with it. Its true – after so many years perhaps I should be used to it. I should be inured to pain. But I am not. With considerable effort I brought myself back to whatever conversation everyone was having and went on with my evening.

Such is life. No matter how hard I try, I cannot protect my son. I have to sit and watch as he goes through things that no one should have to go through. I cannot help. I am merely a useless witness. If there was some way I could take on the pain that my child lives through so uncomplainingly, I would. But then that is why there is no God – I cannot even for a moment make his life easier when he needs my help the most. I simply watch. I have to be brave. I can’t lose it. I cannot even cry. Such is life.

Self-Entitlement

How many of you have had to work really hard for the things you wanted, even for things you needed? How many of you have felt the frustration of being almost there but not quite? How many of you have felt the terror that comes from the very real possibility that you may lose everything? I am sure many of you have at some time or the other gone through at least one of these scenarios as have I. I am also sure that there are a few who have been able to skim through life on browse mode – never really working hard or meaningfully but coasting along on someone’s luck or compassion for ineptitude. It is possible to live like that – to live as if the world owes you something for your mere existence. 

The idea of self-confidence is something that I believe in. It is great to respect yourself enough so that no one takes you for granted or undervalues you. There is a thin line between confidence and an almost delusional sense of arrogance though. If, because of luck or hard work, you have gained an enviable position in society, confidence is natural. If, however, this very confidence makes you think that you are better than everyone else and deserve to be treated special even when you aren’t doing a thing to earn it, then that is a really quick way to annoy those around you. Even worse are the characters who have always sought excuses for not making it in life. They find ways to be victims. They find faults in everything and everyone other than themselves. They think it is everyone else’s sworn duty to help them. They think that their mere existence entitles them to certain benefits. It is amazing how merit is never in the picture for the self-entitled.

In my line of work and in my personal life I have met a few people I wish I had not come across. In my centre, my partner and I have come across people who are indefatigably helpful and inspiring but we have also known those who come to us and do nothing productive to help the kids. They range from the rare parents who cannot see other special needs kids in roughly the same boat as their kids with even a smidgeon of empathy or compassion to others who wish us to help them in every possible way while themselves doing absolutely nothing to help even their own child. It has made me burn with anger time and again. Is it so hard to open your heart up to help your own child ? Forget about helping other children – if you cannot support your own child who so badly needs unflinching acceptance, then really what is the point?

I also get upset when I find time in life to run a school, take classes, take care of a house, make killer meals, deal with my son who needs that extra help, make sure I don’t neglect my daughter, write, help my husband in his project work as an independent consultant and exercise every single day come rain or shine and I am faced with people who say “Well I tried and it’s not happening. You didn’t help me enough. You didn’t hold my hand. Yes you can do all of that but so what, everyone can’t be like you! You need to do more for me – I am entitled.” I get angry – hell I am angry – I am done trying to help and I am so done expecting even a modicum of courtesy and decency from people who have taken complete advantage of my nature.

If there is a God in heaven, and believe me there are many days when I know there is no such presence, if there is justice in earth or heaven, if there is any meaning to life at all, then the self-entitled would be given short shrift every step of their miserable lives so those who know the value of working hard are left in peace. This life is not easy for many people and while I am not asking for help, I hope that those who choose to be unhelpful can at least refrain from making things more difficult. Have a heart for crying out loud…