Scars

Wounds heal if the body is otherwise healthy. No matter how jagged the ends of the tear, they do come together. What one is left with, is a scar however. It may be unsightly or it may be barely noticeable but it is there for all time. Sometimes the scar is so slight one forgets the story behind it. At other times, the scar is a ropey discoloration that stands out on your body so that you cannot ignore it for too long. It doesn’t hurt any longer of course but it never lets you forget.

The scars I have are reminders of people I love not being there in my life anymore or of disappointments so severe that they take ages to get over. One is forced to leave friends behind while moving from one country to another. One is forced to leave family behind when going to some unknown place as a new bride. One is forced to realize that people considered to be friends actually aren’t. One is forced into the choice of leaving a loved one because circumstances dictate it. One is forced to lose a beloved parent to death itself. All the scars still exist within me. The stories behind each are remembered – every single one. The curse of having a good memory is that nothing is forgotten.

Having passed through various painful patches in my life, I am a veteran of scarred landscapes. I have a few years of smooth sailing sometimes and then I get hit left, right and centre by strong winds, heavy seas, icebergs – the whole lot. For years thereafter, its one thing after another that doesn’t go my way. And then for a while the seas are so calm and beautiful that all the previous agony is almost forgotten in the bliss of utter contentment. Just when one gets to that complacent stage, lo and behold – there comes another iceberg out of the blue. This is probably every man’s journey but here I can talk only of my own.

Will thinking differently change the way I view my scars, I wonder! After all maybe real life is all the stuff that hits you when you least expect it – the rest is merely a coffee break. If that is the case, it would be more sensible to use the breaks to renew oneself instead of imagining that they are what life should be and then growing soft so that the next storm hits harder than it might had you been more prepared.

Scars build character though. Mine are unique. They make me what I am. I feel privileged to make mistakes and learn that its alright in the long run – nothing is as dreadful as I make it out to be. My overactive imagination and ridiculous ability to take blame makes it very hard for me to forgive myself. I now realize that that is really rather silly. If I continue to blame myself endlessly, I neither get anywhere nor do I gather the strength to surpass the mistake itself. Perhaps scars are reminders to go easy on ourselves. “Look at us”, they seem to say, “we are part of you – don’t regret us”. If I can learn to view my many scars as reminders to be less hard on myself, as milestones of learning, as a testimonial to being merely human, I would not hurt myself each time I see them...

A tricky mind

I have this theory about distracting oneself from the problems at hand. It doesn’t work. I know people who think that avoiding any thought with regards to the issue will mean the issue loses its ability to wound or annoy or agitate and just go away. It doesn’t go away actually – why would it? Instead you relegate it to the deeper recesses of your mind so that what actually happens is that the worms of doubt and fear creep out in the middle of the night and grow into awesome proportions.

 I’d rather think about the issue till I fall apart with exhaustion and then go to sleep as well as I can. By immersing myself in the problem, I think about nothing else and also run out of variations to obsess on thereby freeing myself from further worry about the problem in a certain amount of time, the length of time varying according to the gravity of the problem.

I think my approach is intense but effective. Yes I do look like something the cat dragged in after a particularly nasty night out on town during this phase but I can, at the end of it all, actually move ahead. I get so bored of thinking about the same thing that I just stop worrying on my own. The journey to get to that particular destination however is not very easy. Yet it is better than distraction which smacks of deviousness and leads away from whatever it is that you are trying to get out of.

The mind is a very powerful entity. You can create a reality of your own that is so far from another’s reality that its almost as if you are living on a different planet. If I am responsible for hurting another, I feel miserable and guilty and am very hard on myself for days especially if there is no opportunity to achieve closure. I know people who never feel guilty though – it appears that in their reality, they are the most important creatures in the world and therefore while watching someone get hurt solely on account of them is unpleasant and perhaps even uncomfortable, it does not induce any sense of guilt whatsoever. Their reality is skewed to serve their purpose alone.

Even otherwise the mind plays endless tricks on you. Depending on your emotional stability, it can create illusions of various types. For a few days you are on a high, feeling invincible and unstoppable. Everything you touch turns into gold and every person who sees you cannot help but smile at your radiant effervescence. And then suddenly you find yourself dealing with a bad patch and lo and behold, you turn into a beacon of misery. You feel lost, unattractive and forget how to smile. Why is that? You know you are the same person you were a week ago. You know your strengths still exist. You know that all of life’s important things are still on your side. And yet you feel like a lesser being. 

The key to control the level of either sorrow or happiness is to limit your dependence on what the world thinks of you. Distracting yourself from misery or overindulging in something that gives you a high are both pointless in the long run. Yes it is nice to be lost in a haze of self-indulgence occasionally but you have to clarify and refine your mind and learn how to control your thoughts. It is then that the mind ceases to lead you and instead ends up becoming your biggest weapon. And that is one path I truly do need to explore from now on....

For a special girl...

She is about three years old I think or possibly a bit younger. Tiny and energetic with twinkling eyes and chubby cheeks, she grabbed my attention the moment I first laid eyes on her. Of course I seemingly ignored her for the most part – small children can never resist that – its how I have most kids eating out of my hands fairly easily. This one was no exception.

Her mother was my maid’s neighbour. She came asking me for a job. I eyed her doubtfully, wondering how she could manage to take care of the child and do the dishes at the same time. I told her I didn’t have much requirement for a second maid but she pleaded softly. She was very young and delicately pretty. I couldn’t say no but I was sure my decision would come to bite me in the near future.

The first day mother and daughter came in with big smiles. The little one was chattering away constantly and I do mean non-stop. I tried to suppress my grins as I went about my cooking and packing of lunches. She was a bit shy with me and would keep quiet whenever I was in the kitchen. Sushanth found the tiny girl adorable and he would openly show his admiration. She in return bestowed her brightest smiles on him.

Soon she took to being more and more curious. She would follow Mahi chirping ‘Didi, Didi” till Mahi could take it no more. She marched up to me saying ‘Amma, she has way too much energy. I can’t play with her anymore.” I raised my eyebrow and asked innocently “Oh really? Imagine having that kind of energy!” Mahi wasn’t amused. Riya, as the little minx was called, managed to adopt the entire lot of us. She would go on in Bengali about God knows what while we stared with bewildered amusement. She wouldn’t leave her mother for a second and kept getting in everyone’s way in the kitchen. Her singsong “Maaa, Oooo Maaaaa” and “Kiiiii?” had me in splits. Sometimes for no discernible reason she got into the mood for a dance and she’d be off shaking her nonexistent hips and moving her head about in wild abandon.

She was a total entertainment package and I marvelled at how clearly she spoke. I chatted to her in English so she could learn something new and she would listen with her head tilted to one side and her eyes wide with interest. Sushanth would come home from the office, cock a ear in the direction of the kitchen and ask “Where’s the pixie? I don’t hear her today”. He would greet her every morning and evening and wave goodbye and she treated him like an equal. I must admit to being surprised that my normally undemonstrative husband would melt like gooey chocolate over little Riya.

For both of us, what touched us most was the care with which the young mother watched over her daughter. Unlike most women I know, she had no issues about having a daughter instead of a son – nor did she curse the child for being dark as night itself while she was fair. Her pride in her and her affection was writ large on her lovely face. She told me she couldn’t get a job anywhere because no one would let the child in. She then said she was not so poor that she would leave her child elsewhere and go to work. Her mother had asked her to leave Riya with her back in her village in Bengal and she refused. “I know what it feels like to stay unwanted in another’s home even if the home is that of your own grandparents’. I would never leave my daughter to anyone else”, she said fiercely. 

I smiled at her and told her she should make sure the little one went to school. She replied that that was why she was coming to work – to make enough money so that she could educate her daughter. I was moved. It was beautiful indeed to see a mother such as her. Such a searing dedication to her child. Such patience with her endless chatter. Such pride in her achievements. I felt the emotion welling inside and sent a silent prayer that this mother and daughter should forever be blessed with whatever their hearts yearned for.

Riya is lucky indeed – I know in my heart that with a mother like that she cannot but succeed. Here’s to more wonderful mothers who unreservedly cherish their daughters....

A gift...

There are moments in life when you are surprised in a way that you never forget. The surprise may last or it may be ephemeral but for that moment all you can do is accept almost in a spirit of reverence that which is gifted to you unexpectedly. One such moment came my way a few days ago.

I was at Appu’s school dreading yet another open house session. These sessions are long , interspersed with accounts of what the teachers are working on with the students, how they are planning to overcome the difficulties and usually how we were not to be bothered about the slow pace of academics because the work habits needed to be tackled before knowledge could be imparted. I have been hearing versions of this for years. It was only last academic year that I placed my son in this newly started special school – he had always been in a regular school prior to that. His former school had no interest in special needs children apart from the extra money they brought in. He was therefore left free to play or merely walk around and was quite happily stuck in the grade level he found least problematic. Therefore my wariness of schools continues – I am forever afraid of hearing something I will not be able to handle.

I was proud of my child, no doubt and yet the dread I am describing would not cease to haunt me. The idea of helplessly watching as some children battled their almost insurmountable behavioural and nervous disorders in order to do the smallest of tasks – that which everyone takes for granted was never easy. All I could see was the pain – their determination escaped me entirely. Each time I had to visit the school. I would wake with a headache and go through the morning so tensed that a coiled spring was relaxed in comparison. I won’t lie – it is hard to accept that my son needs to be in a special school for he is so social and such a bundle of talent that I have never ceased blaming myself for not being able to unlock his potential.

The morning passed by in a series of discussions and demonstrations while I waited to see what the remedial class was going to show us. That was Appu’s class – there are four of them in his group and they are all uniquely gifted. I have watched them in class before and knew they had miles to go in order to learn to sit and focus, to do independent work, to be quiet while others answered, to ignore distractions like a partly opened door or a mooing cow from the farm next door or even a child crying downstairs.

I got out of the hall to call and check on my daughter who was at a neighbour’s house and spied Appu’s class teacher standing by the veranda. I walked up to her and started talking, telling her how impossible it was to get my son to study and do homework. She eyed me with a slightly disappointed expression and said “Please don’t talk like that about my child!.” I laughed and apologized – and promised to try harder for the next open house demo which Appu and I were to put up.

The principal then called us in again and it was the turn of the remedial class to show off. They walked in – four kids of different ages and sizes with the same cocky walk and big grins on their faces. They arrayed themselves in front of the teacher and helped her set up. The moms sat in a row behind them since we didn’t want them to be distracted.

The teacher drew a scoring table on the board and explained the rules of the science demo. Each child was to come to the board and draw a diagram and explain about it in detail. A golden star would be given for the diagram, one more for a good presentation and a bonus star for good behaviour (even simple stars are great motivation !). They were to answer questions and present in a chosen order.

The kids agreed. The questions then began and I couldn’t believe what I saw – four eager hands flying up – everyone wanting to answer at the same time! Appu kept looking back at me for approval and saying loudly “pick me ! pick me!”. We moms looked at each other in amazement. The questions began and it was Appu’s turn to go first. He answered all the questions and went to the board to draw a caterpillar which was his chosen topic. This child who hates drawing and finds it incredibly difficult to copy even the simplest of figures walked up confidently and drew an actual caterpillar – true it was mostly the suggestion of a caterpillar and was by no means a very good depiction but anyone seeing it would instantly know what it was and besides it was smiling!

He then proceeded to talk about caterpillars clearly and confidently albeit halting at certain moments when shyness made him look away from his audience. I heard him spout facts I never knew. I heard terms used that I had no clue that my child was even aware of. This little guy who till a year ago had to restart from the basics so that the gaps in his academics could be bridged, was actually dealing with science projects now!

Each and every one of those children presented beautifully. Each knew and helped out when the others seemed to falter. Each looked around for approval with shining eyes and huge smiles. I saw the same mixture of pride, surprise and tearfulness in the other mothers’ eyes. I did not try take a video or a picture or try in any way to capture the moment for it was indelibly etched in my heart already. No picture can match the image of my son taking that huge step to learning and discovering the joy of knowledge. No video can reproduce the thrilling feeling of being witness to a change I’ve longed for for years. No record can be made of the change in body language that a child displays when for the first time he feels a sense of pride in himself. I am overwhelmed by a deep sense of gratitude for being blessed with the gift of a moment such as this one. Here’s to many more....

My Memories

It has never ceased to amaze me how vastly complex and layered memories can be. My memories of incidents or people that have touched me greatly either positively or negatively are so clear and detailed that even after a dozen years I could put them down in words that evoke the exact sentiment I felt when I was living through those moments. It is a mixed blessing however. The happy moments don’t fade with time – there is no sepia tinge to those frozen captures. And yet the sad moments can fill my eyes years later – there is no softening of the edges of pain or at least there is a gradual softening but the intensity of those moments never leave me. No I am not living in the past – I talk of only those memories that are in my trunk – the ones that will not leave if I move house or change everything else about me – I am talking about those dusty and not so dusty relics of times that I have never quite relinquished. Some days I still climb the stairs to that attic – those days when I am in the mood to dream.

Memories are unique and they are very personal. I have memories that are shared with others because the happy or sad moments involved them as well. But our memories of those moments are never quite the same. Is it because our perceptions when we lived through them were different? Is it because my ability to remember is sharper? Is it because the degree of intensity experienced by each is not the same at all? Or is it merely that over time, as you change, as your thought processes change, your memories too undergo a transformation?

How do you explain to someone else the fragility and beauty of a memory that you have shared with them? How do you elaborate on the disappointment you feel when the other simply doesn’t remember the way you do? How do you handle the feeling of being let down when you realize that some moments you have cherished deeply turn out to be just pleasant and perhaps diverting moments for others? Memories cannot be shared truly – they are yours and yours alone – keep them close to your heart and never relive them in the presence of others – there’s always a chance that you get hurt and lose the joy in those memories for all time.

When I think of say, an unhappy childhood incident so many years later, I can remember the scent of the air, the look in my eyes, the feel of the sorrow that envelops my heart like a heavy wet blanket. My whole being bows under the weight of the emotion. I see the incident replayed like a movie. Memories are little collages of scent, taste, touch, sound, feel and emotion. And therefore they are easy to trigger – how many times has the scent of jasmine brought home to me the holidays at my grandmother’s place in the village, or the notes of a song reminded me of a tender moment or the feel of a baby’s skin flooded me with warm memories of my babies asleep with drops of their mother’s milk still trickling out of the corners of their little lips!

Every aspect of a memory is significant for me. The place, the people involved, the emotions felt, the words spoken or left unsaid – all these are held together and sealed into a tight little bundle in my mind. When I unwrap the bundle years or maybe just days later, a glowing tapestry spills out with its vivid colours and intricate craftsmanship. The beauty or sadness of that memory is forever preserved, woven into the threads of the tapestry that I have created in my mind. The idea that these memories have not the same place in another’s mind is painful but also perhaps somewhat liberating – for I have learnt that they are now not to be shared, they are and forever will be mine alone.