Conversations with self

My body and I are currently not getting along. We seem to have a horde of differences. I try to be reasonable but my body is clearly not seeing sense. Today’s argument went something like this:

Me : You need to get a bit tougher. I mean look at the number of back aches over the years. It’s a bit embarrassing. My 90-year-old grandmother doesn’t have as many back aches as you do!

Body : (rather tartly) You spend most of your time sitting or standing. You don’t take me swimming or cycling or anything that makes me feel valued. Your grandmother can do more work than you so don’t give me that crap. Blame yourself – learn a new exercise. Walking in slow motion doesn’t cut it anymore!

M: I walk at er..average speed. I am doing all those superman, cobra, get on all fours and extend myself like a fool exercises, aren't I? I don’t know how to swim and I can’t find a teacher to save my life. Besides I need to shape up before I squeeze myself into the swimsuit I bought !

B : (muttering) By the time you shape up even this damn swimsuit will be too tight for you.

M : I heard that ! You are supposed to be on my side. Why do you betray me at every turn? I only tried to get the milk from the fridge and you fold up like a banana peel !!

B: It’s a two-way street – I can’t help you if you don’t actually do something.

M: (with a painfully sore ego) Forget the backache – what about this rash? I look like an eruption of pink sand dunes! I am not allergic to anything so how do you explain this huh?? I can’t go to work. I scare the neighbourhood cats if I show my face and now I have to invest in a burkha all because of you!

B: You should’ve thought of that before you piled gloop on me for two hours in an effort to tame your weird frizzy hair. Too much gloop and you got a viral infection. Hence the rash – a two-year-old could follow this simple logic but you persist in being stupid.

M: Yeah you know it all don’t you! Now all I can do is sleep since I am on two different allergy medications. Who will do my work for me, huh? Tell me that!

B: I need a break – you never listen to me – you don’t give me enough water and you eat just enough to keep me going. How am I supposed to get any rest when you read till 1 in the morning? I have had it with you – I’m going my own way.

M: Er…how would you do that? You are my body after all.

B: Oh so now you are being possessive eh? Don’t objectify me! Treat me like I matter and thinks will go swimmingly.

M: (wincing) Don’t remind me about the swimming bit – I hereby swear I shall do my best to value you – howzzat?

B: Well it’s a start. Now go drink that water!

Black coffee mornings...

I’ve stopped having tea in the mornings. I avoid milk as much as I can. I don’t feel like having one more of anything when it comes to food. But I do have a renewed affection for black coffee sweetened with jaggery. It is the flavour of days long past.

My father loved his black coffee. He could drink it at any time. He could drink any number of cups of it. He even used to joke that his dark complexion came from the coffee and told me he used to be fair as a child. I found that quite funny. For me it was a forbidden drink when very young so I ached to try it.

I was a very odd child. Knowing that mornings were my best time, I woke up early and took out my books. I must’ve been 14 or 15 then. My dad woke much earlier than me and seeing me up, would make black coffee for both of us. It was a ritual. We didn’t speak much. We sipped our coffee and he would walk to the Ashram while I would study for an hour or so. The rest of the household woke much later.

Today, as I sit sipping my black coffee and wonder why I have lost the will to wake up early and enjoy my day, I wish I had my Acha around just to tell me that it will all be ok. I wish I could see him enjoying the first of endless cups of coffee. I wish I could wake with the sound of his prayers in my ears and in my heart. I wish so badly that he could see his granddaughter for he had passed by the time she was born. She too loves coffee in a tea-drinking family. As I cradle my morning black coffee, I feel connected to my father for a few fleeting moments and I can almost feel his roughened hands stroking my hair as he passes by on his way to somewhere else.

Walk the talk...

The rains had just woven their magic. The heat had slipped away into the night. The air was cool and fresh. I wanted to walk outside. Mahi knew I walked alone always but she asked if she could come with me. Usually she and her dad have these long chatty walks at night but he is away three weeks out of four so she does miss him.

 I had been working on too many things and been away for hours at a stretch. Its school holidays for the twosome so they were pretty much bored. I don’t have help with Appu so if I am out at meetings, he simply does what he wants which ends up in him zoning out so much that I get scared. I find that even when I get work I love to do, I have to think twice about attending meetings or taking on extra work. Sometimes I wonder why I am not allowed to have a life of my own even after so many years of back-seat existence. Always I have had to forget my likes and do what was best. Always. I did resent it many times. And then I tell myself – I’m a mother – I can do anything.

Mahi was in the mood to talk. I listened to her after stilling my wandering mind.

“Amma, I don’t mean to sound weird but have you ever imagined Appu being like any other boy. What would he do? Would he act anything like this?”

“Well, initially when he was very small I just wished he would sleep like a regular baby or not be hyper or just give me a break. But now I don’t imagine him as anyone other than Appu.”

“Amma, I keep trying to picture him that way and it doesn’t work. He wouldn’t be Appu. He wouldn’t be so attached to me. He wouldn’t be with me so much – right?”

I smile at her. “Is it hard for you Mahi? Knowing you always have to keep an eye on him? Do you miss having the kind of brothers your friends have?”

She shrugs her slender shoulders. “Not really Amma. Appu is Appu and he’s my brother. I will always look out for him. He loves me a whole lot. He's a really good brother.”

I nod and walk beside her. My heart is full and my throat closes up.

We talk some more. She wants to know why she never has loyal friends. She wants to know how I make friends easily. I tell her I don’t. I am lucky to have a handful of friends who are true to me. She too will find such friends over time. Time and difficult phases can filter out good friends from the kind of friends who don’t stick around. Also one thing you learn when you grow older is that its good to forgive as often as you can. Learn to say sorry when you goof up. If you miss your friends, call them and talk. Let them know you are thinking of them.

She nods thoughtfully as we head back home. Once inside she gives me a tight hug and thanks me. She wants to do it again the next night. I nod and hug her again. I look at how tall she has become and how very pretty. I thank her for being Mahi and I hope very hard that she never outgrows her need for  Amma.

For the love of a brother

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It was one of those Saturdays. I had to rush about all day. Morning saw me making breakfast, waking the two teenagers who seem to be sleeping more than ever and left with no time to make lunch. I ran off to various errands and meetings after telling S and the kids to have fun. They went out to eat and shop and chill. By the time I got back at night I was bone weary.

Too hot to sit on my recliner, I plopped myself on the floor and closed my eyes. I was tired. I had my period so there was no one position that I found comfortable. I had a ton of work yet to be done and most importantly I had to teach Appu because no matter whom I leave him with at home, no one will take the trouble to teach or read or just play with him differently so that he can learn something new.

I wanted to curl into a ball and  lie on the floor but I bit my lip and decided to get on with it. Mahi asked me if I was ok. I said yeah just a bit tired as moms generally are. She got me a glass of water. I was telling my husband that I would try and make Appu read at least a bit or I wouldn’t be able to deal with the guilt. A day lost for him is a day I cannot replace. S told me to take a break and do it the next day. I refused. By the time I gulped down the water, Mahi was back. She said, “Amma, you sit right here. I’m going to read with Appu today.”

I was touched.

“Are you sure you will have the patience baby? Its not that easy.”

“I just want to help. I can do it Amma.”

Off went my little girl. I told her which book to pick and I sat in the living room with my eyes closed listening to them read. It was all about giant octopuses. Appu seemed somewhat interested. He would read and then she would read the same thing so that he would understand how the words were pronounced. She jumped and pranced about telling him what the words meant. She would come running to ask me how to explain some word or the other and I would tell her. She would then go back and add to it memories of movies, trips, other stories so that he could compare. Appu grew more animated. He seemed at ease reading with his sister.

Forty minutes went by. I was still on the floor. My eyes filled up as the oh-so-different voices of my children filtered their way to my heart. I was lucky to have a daughter who set out to help without me asking her to. I was lucky to have a son who could still laugh his child-like belly laugh at the silliest things and who adored his kid sister. My tiredness vanished. I got up and went to Appu’s room to see two happy faces shout out “Finished Amma!”. Appu got his break for being cooperative and Mahi got the biggest hug I could give her.

For some, autism is a thing to be ashamed of and swept under the carpet. For Mahi it’s a fact to be accepted. She may never have a brother like her other friends but she is all the stronger for knowing that she has a brother who will love her like no other.

Not words

I ask myself sometimes what it would be like to live a life where autism did not play a part at all. It would be different certainly. I would not be on edge every moment as I am now. I might have had fewer grey hairs and looked less tired. I might have smiled more. My daughter might have had an elder brother who would always take care of her instead of the other way around. But then I don’t really know, do I? A life without autism may appear to be easier and it probably is but if there is one thing I have learnt over the years, it is the simple fact that everyone carries burdens and hurts that may or may not be apparent. Wishing for something different may not be a bad thing but thinking different is always easier may lead to more disappointment.

So over the years, acceptance has seeped into all of us in this family. Mahi does not ask why she has to stand up for her brother always. My husband does not speak of the moments he probably wanted with his son but instead works harder so that he leaves him with a safety net – perhaps because this is the only way he knows how to show his love. I don’t complain about the fact that a constant high alert mode is taking its toll on probably every cell in my body – instead I find moments every day where I can learn to let go. It is all a work in progress.

I have also learnt to view with gratitude the little things that make life light up when I least expect it. A hug from my son who knows exactly when I need it the most. Stumbling upon lovely bronze chrysanthemums in some shabby roadside nursery that I then lovingly plant and fuss over. Watching how my little girl moves magically about the house warming my very soul. Had things been different perhaps I might have noticed little moments less and focused on what the world in general focuses on. Now I have much less materially but a lot more in terms of experience. I have a hundred stories in me that are clamouring for release. I have a self belief that comes from trying so many things that I never thought I would ever try. I have had to be twice the person I was just to be able to cope.

In spite of how life has wended its way to a place where I can start appreciating its beauties, there is one thing that I will always regret having – it may be inconsequential in the larger scheme of things but I want it so badly I can taste the longing. I want to be able to share my words with my son. I want him to understand who his mother was. I want to be able to share with him the beauty of words and how they can capture what is hidden. I want him to lose himself in a book. I know its too much to ask so perhaps its better if I try and understand his colours and patterns instead. I have to keep at it and maybe one day I will understand the language of ‘not words’.

Of beaches and blessings...

The beach lay wide and free. It was as it always was – calm and as empty as you could possibly want. It was our little slice of paradise as I called it or as the children called it, ‘Sandwich Beach’. You got to the beach by traversing an increasingly narrow strip of land till there was barely a hundred feet from the river on one side to the beach on the other. And what a beach it is! 11 kms stretching as far as the eye can see with hardly anyone except for a handful of intrepid fishermen. The skies were a deepening grey and the wind was picking up in intensity when we reached there after a meandering drive in search of islands.

My mood was reflected in the sky and sea which were both far from their normal exuberant shades of blue. I was quiet that day. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Why would I? I felt weary of the falsity of words that are used without thought. I was oddly calm too inside as one is when the expected, however painful it may be, comes to pass. A vaccum filled me sucking away my words and thoughts. An emptiness that is hard to describe grew rooted in my mind .

I walked as is my wont for a long way on the beach. I could hear the laughter of the children as they played. I could see S if I turned back. He didn’t much like playing in the water. I liked to walk on the edge where the waves would lap my feet but I could walk comfortably nevertheless. The sun was setting and the clouds grew heavier. The air carried the scent of imminent rain. I walked back and sat on a log with S on the high sands watching the kids.

Suddenly there jumped up the most perfect gray shadowed being. Its sleek skin shone in the waning sun. Its beautiful head arrowed in and out of the waters. I jumped up and ran to the water where excited cries of “Amma, did you see the dolphins?” greeted me. For that is what they were – dolphins! A little group of three or four lovely creatures frolicking about. I had a silly grin on my face as I watched them move further away from the beach and us. I have never seen dolphins in their natural habitat before and none of the locals had ever seen them – not once! I didn't click pictures. I simply soaked in that moment.

This thoroughly unexpected sight moved me like nothing else. I felt as though I had been given a wonderful gift. It was a sign from wherever telling me – hang in there, things will turn out well. On a dark evening if dolphins come to wish you well, you are lucky indeed. We left the beach with the images of those dolphins still vivid in our minds. My normally quiet Appu was so full of excitement that he recounted it all to his grandmother back home. For me it was a moment of magical benediction that made my stay in Kerala truly memorable.

My Sundays...

Sunday mornings with the papers spread out before me and a cup of tea by my elbow are possibly my favourite time of the week. I am not yet worried about Monday and the work that is to follow. I am not feeling blue which is how I feel on a Sunday evening. I am simply feeling relaxed.

I listen to some instrumental music as I go about my day – checking on the garden, planning for lunch and in today’s case – prepping for the evening’s party for Appu (it is his nakshathram day today or pirannal as we call it). I like structure. I like to know I am on top of things. Last minute changes confound me. For my friends who know me well enough they also know why I am as I am. For the others, well, I am just hard to understand.

My son mirrors my patterns. He mirrors my need for structure. He mirrors my fear of too many changes. It took me a long time to realize that all the things that make it hard for him to deal with this world have their roots in me. Its just a lot more in his case – so exaggerated as to leave anxiety in its wake. For me, I can step back and understand that I need to let go. How am I to teach him this?

Maybe that’s why I love Sunday mornings. Appu wakes late and likes it when his day is full of surprises. I wake up late and potter about in whichever way I feel like. S simply gets in front of his laptop. Mahi is up and dancing for she is the light sprite who always makes me feel that I am too anchored. Her lightness is a gift. Who wouldn’t be inspired by a child whose feet barely touch the ground! How beautiful it would be if more of us were like that…

On a Sunday morning, the possibilities are endless. I can do anything I want. I can also do absolutely nothing. And the potential to do absolutely nothing is what makes the day so delicious. Today I write without any aim in mind – not to convey anything, not to teach anyone, not to fit into an outline that has been created by someone else. I am writing because when I am quiet, its what comes most easily to me.

There are too many moments in the week when everything seems overwhelming, when no matter what I do it appears deficient or simply useless, when there is frustration at finding that people are not who they seem to be but I can cope with all that because I have Sunday morning to fall back on. This week is hectic with work as well as Onam sadya to get done not to mention the office inauguration.  I have writing deadlines to meet. I have people to keep happy but then there is always next Sunday to rejuvenate me at the end of it all. Here’s to a happy Sunday for everyone!