TGIF, today......

As the current year closes in tightly, the thoughts wander. The days gone by, though hazy, have etched lines and imprints indelibly. The whole period, looks so much like last year's notebooks. The pages are a little limp, dogeared and the writing - incomprehensible. There is a common thread running through all the pages, almost all of them - " could have been so much neater and more organised ". The days gone by suffer from the same comparison.


It is very vivid and stark in the memory. The crispness and the newness of the textbook and the notebook papers. The peculiarly baffling smell ( stench ) of the " gummy ", " keroseney" fresh papers, stuck at some place, leaving black marks on the fingertips while i eagerly flipped them. They were such essential ingredients of the start of an academic new year. The reams of brown paper and the miscalculated hence "perpetually running short labels " to be stuck on the covers, covered the floors of tiny spaces earmarked for the ritual. But most dramatic was the quality of the handwriting which graced the labels and the right hand corners of the notebooks. The very best was reserved for that space and a " rough recce " preceded the " fair " final prints.


As the days progressed and the school hours stretched to infinity, the quality of writing and the substance deteriorated to vagueness and reached a nadir. Strongest of resolves and efforts proved inadequate to recreate the first day magic.Does all this ring a bell?


Reflecting on the quality, nature and substance of the days gone by of the yesteryear, the paramount feeling generally is that " only if given another chance " , i could surely have done much better. Nothing is lost as yet. We all have a full quota of the crisp, fresh, gift wrapped in the most sublime colors of the rainbow, 365 days. Our first baby steps in 2011, shall be ginger yet the very best that we can offer to ourselves and the world, akin to the handwriting on the first few pages of a new notebook. Yes, the need to perform well, everyday thereafter, shall slow us down. The deliberate nature of that pace shall be frowned upon as the days pass. The need to maintain or keep abreast of life and its vagaries shall dilute the purity and sanctity of intent and effort.The handwriting shall gradually turn illegible, and surely we shall find reasons, convincing enough to condone the deterioration that sets in.


Is it a given that we allow the new year's practices, as the new dawn to old habits and perpetuate them? Why is there a need for introspection, alterations, resolutions, looking over the shoulder, hindsight and reformation, NOW ? Why not keep an account, a journal, a dossier, a diary of the flaws, inadequacy, deceit, dishonesty, negativity, on a daily basis? The magnitude of alterations and reforms required for the new year pose such enormity that it deflates and discourages, even the most steely and fiercely resolved.


The pressure of not being able to live up to the contrived promises is so enormous, right at the start of the year, that it is almost like encashing a cheque from the bank where you do not even have an account. Financial bankruptcy does not pose a danger more grave, than the emotional one that follows the realisation of this inadequacy. Hence the attempts to better the good, next year, is fraught with huge problems.And in any case, the worst enemy good has is to do better. So let us remain wedded to our self proclaimed mediocrity, average ordinariness and run - of - the - mill existence. If we deserve that so shall we get it. If we want to get better, we need to set the reforms and earn/ deserve it.Till then let the "disturbing" peace prevail.


Hence prudence demands that all these equations and possibilities be attended at the leisure hours of the coming Saturday and Sunday, nursing the hangover of yet another year gone by.Till then the pages shall remain crisp, fresh and blank, eager to receive our unique imprints. Right now is the time to do exactly what was done for years on the last day, every year. Hold your spirits high ( excuse the pun ) and say cheers.It is everyone's birthday tomorrow. Hic...hic.. hurray....

Dream tonight.

Dreams die hard
Their death though always on the cards

Tonight i sleep early
Offering enough time to exorcise the nightmares, surely
The roller - coaster that happens yearly

The dreams shall cure the ailments worldly
The touchstones of character, purely

If i dream alone,
It remains just that - a dream
If we all dream together
It shall turn real

So come, sleep early !
Staying up all night
Just does not seem right
Nursing a hangover, a new year blight
What a miserable plight
Sleep shall ensure we dream all night
Together, we shall find our path by moonlight
Dreams shall show us the heaven's gates pearly white
A new year, perfectly bright...

Against the odds

We, with a deeper instinct, choose a companion, who compels our strength, who makes enormous demands on us, albeit gently, who does not doubt our courage or toughness, who does not believe us to be naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat us as an equal. This could not be more true in arduous physical tasks. It is quite intuitive on the part of the ones seeking support or encouragement, to seek an ally who is more able bodied. But toughness lies in the soul and spirit, not in muscles.Hence all the able bodied, seemingly tough, may turn out to be bad choices, if the bulk is thought to be the criterion for selection. Brave men are all vertebrates; they have their softness on the surface and their toughness in the middle.How does one scratch/ drill the softness to seek the inner core of toughness? I guess the common thread/ traits running in tough men/ women are that they generally have a sunny attitude to physical demands. The end points and destinations are farthest from their calculations and even if they are not, they never allow the stress of aim/ objective to fudge the joy of being together till the end. For the leaders, the ones to carry the load of expectations, the trick must lie in avoiding negativity associated with enormity of the task. The smartness would lie in controlled awareness, a detached involvement but a fiercely tight lid over personal emotions, focus and concentration. The dependents make no bones about the leaning on the tougher ones for constant guidance - a way forward. But how do the tough ones keep their wits about themselves? The every fact that they are under scrutiny to deliver constantly and not drop their guard can work both ways. Either the seemingly tough ones can buckle under the pressure, expose their underbelly and disappoint. The real tough, revel in dependence and the awareness that no minor slip up or laxity be allowed to enter their though process. They too have their Achilles' heel. They too do not want to wake up eatrly, they too are grumpy early mornings, have their emotional baggage. Their supremely fit looking exterior asks very discomforting questions and the mind injects the usual dose of pessimism and tentativeness. But they learn or have learnt to live through the eyes of the expectant and not their own soft considerations for themselves. They have exactly the same anxiety and weakness. They somehow garner all that is within them to muster enough courage and staying power, to last. Yes, that is it. The staying power ! The murmurs of disapproval for a longer course for running, the inability to take the minds off the task yet to be completed, are all pretty common deterrents to an enjoyable and successful completion. The aches and pains, the cramps and fatigue, generally have a common starting point. More scarily for the tough ones, the murmurs of complaints get more audible and when the support is garnered by the sheer strength of the number in a group, the loneliness gets frightening and the demand to stay rooted in conviction is challenged. It becomes imperative to quell the murmurs of protest and negativity by distraction and a gentle yet firm hand and lead. A single bad example can really spread like a rash to others. Everyone feels the pressure almost at the same time. The tough ones have the experience and belief to last out a bit longer. Their muscles must hurt more, for to lead the pack you need that much extra. Pain and hurt are inevitable, but suffering through them is optional. The weak allow themselves to be overwhelmed by the enormity while the tough bide time, stay out a tad longer. For the tough ones, the pain of discipline is any day preferable to the pain of regret of an incomplete task. Look around and remember always, that the cowards never started and the weak died along the way. Make sure they do not drag you down with them. To measure a man, measure his heart and measure the honesty of his efforts. Carl Jung says, "There is no coming to consciousness without pain." Feel the pain, feel the suffering, it is great for the heart. It is sublime to suffer and feel stronger, later. And about the pain, yes, it always hurts, but after a while, it stops hurting, not because the body stops complaining, but because the signals are not heeded and anyway there is no choice but to suffer and miraculously, it does not get any worse. We actually get used to the pain and it stops hurting. "I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have." Leonardo da Vinci, dying words, 1519. Pray, where do we all stand in our own eyes and in the eyes of God? Leonardo de Vinci was dying then, we still have time on hand, or so we feel. Why not start afresh?

 

 

Marathon- the perfect metaphor for life

Wee hours of winter mornings seem shrouded in secrecy. The curfew clamped on the roads by the cold, breached by the bone- chilling breeze/wind/ gusts, adds a certain eeriness to the pregnant silence. And the wee hours of a Sunday morning? It is almost sacrilegious to be irreverent to the somnolence of the favoured ones, by any indulgence, other than, by the inadvertent rustle caused by the quilts/ razais/ duvet/, in the elusive and almost always unsatisfactory attempt at covering the freezing toes.


The inexplicable need on the part of most Indians to "seek health" outdoors, during these unforgiving times, (for most, ONLY during these times) wreaks havoc with the sanctity of the mornings and sanity of the siesta seeking somnolent. For eons, serious damage has been inflicted on the dear ones by my obsessive early morning training schedules. These wounds had almost healed. But recently the scabs were mercilessly peeled off and the wounds resurfaced to fester again, as the marathon seasons blossomed and the races sprouted around the globe.


Cross country running in the city, is possible only in the really really early hours. It is a toss up of choosing lesser of the evils.I have forever trusted the pie dogs, ( fiercely protecting their personal fiefdoms, especially against the early morning intruders ) than the frenzied maniacs behind the wheels on Ahmedabad roads. Hence my belief and the conviction born out of it, has altered my body language when confronted in a mock combat by the canines. Somehow, despite repeated alterations in the course, facing or along the traffic directions, my paranoia and fears of being "hit and run over " variety have refused to leave me.but come the Boxing day and the fears be damned. Ahmedabad is seriously trying to shake off its embarrassingly huge prevalence of sedentary habits, and gearing up for its first international marathon.


Training for marathons has always worked its magic on every one, the beginners, the seasoned and the laggards, all want that experience. Running a mile feels like a chaotic promo of a thriller, while marathon running is like having the best seat in an opera and experience the subtle nuances of drama and music, gently unfold. The magic lies in deliberate, leisurely courtship and not an instant gratification of a marriage.Glide on the wings of a gentle breeze, hear the inner voices of your tough yet relaxed mind during the humbling jog, reminding you that anything is possible- always.


We all have been stung, either by the ends of a lit cigarette stub, the matchstick or the inadvertent contact with a, just extinguished sparkler. The startle, the pain, the sting, they all are such short lived. That is a sprint, running a mile. Now, look at the glow of the charcoal slowly getting scorched in a fireplace, roasting, burning slowly. Pertinently, feel the warmth of the fire gently percolating the fingers and creating the magical glow on the face when sitting around a bonfire, that experience transcends us some place else- that is marathon running. It may even roast, but still the burns are painless.


The freedom and the unbridled joy of running - on the empty Peddar road flyover in Mumbai, the bay area of San Fransisco or as it shall transpire on the usually choc- a - bloc, chaotic Astodia Darwaza on the Boxing day marathon in Ahmedabad - are a great outlet to the bottled up steam of a stifling, restricted, opinionated and pathologically constipated society.


Running seems a perfect metaphor for life. When peaks are scaled, successes achieved, unfortunately, the methods are glossed over and only the end result is overemphasized. Whether you crawl, walk, run, sprint, scorch the tar and melt it, the joy is in finishing it. As it transpires, the people who brave the ordeal are either made differently or transform themselves to be different. The front runners were still there to applaud in unison, all those, whose weary bodies were the slaves of the still ticking strong minds, egging them to reach the finish line last Sunday at the dress rehearsal of the marathon. Ahmedabad feels different when you run on its roads. Its citizens behaved differently yesterday. The toothless smiles of the shivering pack of three, tumbling out of the mosque, the wholehearted applause of the couple of beedi smoking, middle aged gents pumping their fists in vicarious pleasure of achievement through the grit of the runners, the shy and almost apologetic hand waving of the decked up pillion rider (behind the back of her portly husband) were great motivators and warmed the cockles.


I hope and pray that the spirits are reignited by the presence of the thousands on the road on the Boxing day.The miracle does not and shall not happen at the finishing line.The miracle will happen silently when the troubled, questioning and doubting bodies shall be silenced by the indomitable spirit of a dogged mind. Come, cheer and see the magic unfold- as subtly as the almost air born Kenyan or Ethiopian's strides shall move their lithe bodies, or as harshly and grossly as punctured egos and hurting, squeaking bodies shall be made willing to inch forward and hurtle along, till the applause of the finishers rings loud and forever in the heart at the finishing line.

Zainab- my recent rhapsody

Yes, Zainab!

The name so exquisitely feminine - a chyme, lilting music to the ears.

Zainab - the child of Ali. Prophet Mohammed's daughter.

Not content with the history attached to this name, i probed further, dug deeper. A scratch and a peek later, the true meaning of this, bubbly, vibrant girl, a bundle of joy, all of just, three, was deciphered. Zainab, in Arabic is a flowering line or a flower. In Africa, the name stands for a decorated or ornamented tree. Finally, my search ended with this explanation-Zainab means a rose flower, " the name of a born legend and these girls get everything they deserve "......But in reality, did my Zainab receive all her dues from the Allah?

NO.

My Zainab is afflicted with Down's syndrome. A chromosomal abnormality that has resulted in delayed development and a congenital heart defect.

My tryst with her was preordained. Why on earth, otherwise, would her ailing dad seek my help and come down all the way from Zanzibar?

Abdullah, had sought my appointment on the phone and the mails never gave me the horrific picture that he presented on arrival. A massive, burly unit, he somehow had stuffed himself in a wheelchair.The horror sunk nice and proper, when i asked him the reason for being confined to the wheelchair. The reply was a mere stare, almost a plea. No words were exchanged. He lifted his robe to reveal an intact left leg. The right, a mere stump, dangled, mocking me. Uncontrolled glucose levels and poor circulation had necessitated amputation. His faith had been his strong ally and he had managed to travel.This very faith was likely to be a burden, a cross whose weight would be difficult for me to carry. He was convinced that all his medical problems would be alleviated. The enormity of the situation got scarier as he was convinced that a magical formula for Zainab too, was a mere consultation away.

Silence, has always offered depth and a sense of eternity to me and speech, the shallowness of time. After the initial shock, no words could be spoken and we all, all the four of us - ( Zainab's mother had somehow managed to retain the piety, strength and calmness despite the odds ) ( a woman, of course ) - for various reasons, resorted to silence. The eternity of it was overwhelming and then suddenly, the little bundle of joy blew a kiss in my direction.The ice was broken, warmth and cheer spread. The directions, approach to help and leads were offered by the God's own child with just a mere wave of a hand, the strange tinkling laughter ( it felt as if coins were falling in heaps out of a box) and sparkling black eyes, bobbing -no- dancing, boring through me.

Children with their inimitable simplicity and absence of hangups have uncanny knack of lightening up the situations. Zainab, surely did that. Abdullah tried his best to impress her with his stern words in Swahili, which only liberated the little girl further, and she ran a riot in my consulting room and made herself the cynosure of all the eyes in the waiting room.


Zainab could not form words. She probably knew she did not have to. She did not need to resort to the conventional, drab mode of communication to convey her innermost feelings. The entire spectrum of emotions was on display those four days when we spoke about love and trust, Zainab and i. On her insistence the family would park themselves in the foyer, much before my scheduled arrival and hang on till i finished my last appointment and then we would chat. I learning Swahili from the parents, and warmth, love, faith, simplicity and uncorrupted joy from my bundle of joy, Zainab.


Abdullah's travails did not turn out to be as bad as thought of previously and tight control of his physical, laboratory and radiological parametres yielded remarkable, visible and perceived wellness. An artificial limb, hitherto thought of as impossible, fitted perfectly and created a ripple of apologetic claps initially, and then a rapturous applause form the staff and attendants, as Abdullah took his first baby steps.


Preordained or coincidental, the reception staff and the nurses along with the three Abdullahs, formed a small family which shared great personal details without any comprehensible language to share. Oh, the power of love, the bond of compassion and interdependence thereof...absolutely unbelievable !


Zainab somehow still posed an enigma, an intrigue. Despite almost all the features attributable to her unforgiving ailment, her attempts to form words offered immense hope to me. To me, it was not the garbled, mumbo - jumbo that was an issue, but it was her sheer helplessness to convey the innermost feelings and the struggles writ large on her face, which generally resulted in angst and rage, that caused the pain. She would realise after her fit of rage and then wrap her tiny, chubby arms around my neck, climb on my chair and sit in the lap and remain silent. It was her way of offering an apology. The encounters of such intense emotions were making me hapless and frustrated.


More the inexplicable forms and rises within me, stronger my convictions get about their future veracity. The answer or the explanation to such phenomenon must lie in the fact that now, since reasoning logic or science have resigned to impotence, the answer in the abstract, which mercifully does not need any embellishments of truth, past evidence and data. At one such moment of inner conviction, i offered these words to the parents, " My little angel shall start talking soon, shall learn the languages faster than the kids her age."



Religion, God, black magic, blind beliefs, move over....Desperate times seek refuge even in stark raving madness, insanity, lunacy. I may have sounded exactly that and nothing more to the parents. But the conviction born out of nothing and nowhere must be a message or an instruction to me from Zainab's protector, Ali !


Lo and behold... Last month a strange international caller, chirped and cooed, " Doctor, ..... ( an uncomfortable pause ) Zainab ! Love you....UMMMMM." and more kisses poured out and wet my face... It did not matter whether her wet tender kisses had made their way all the way from Zanzibar or the well guarded, fiercely controlled emotional dam had burst......