Tu Naa Jaane Aas Pass Hai Khuda: Faith in the Times of Corona

Corona Virus

Just as I thought we had surmounted the Covid curve and wrote a blog post on how to beat the lockdown blues, we got it. The entire family. Scattered over three apartments in the same area, we were fighting our own battles with the monster eating our vitals from the inside. 

Father had to be hospitalized twice - once for Covid and later for post-Covid care. He battled like a hero. He still battling various symptoms and side effects that are eating him up even now. It's been a month and a half since he tested positive. I have always looked up to him. He has shown time and again the qualities I would like to imbibe, a strong will to survive, seeking help when needed and an impatience to start over forgetting the problem and looking for solutions. 

Despite all my effeorts, being alone in my home, mother in hers, father in hospital and sister's family huddled in hers all fighting didn't make it easy. 

Everyday began and ended with news of death and loss. It was as if no one would be spared. I thought for a few days that my time was up too. Darkness in my head and the smell of burning wood in my nose kept haunting me. 

Corona Mural

I lost and lost and lost - a brother-in-law who sang beautifully, an uncle who was a quiet and benign presence and my WhatsApp friend for political satire and memes and finally, my brother and best friend, uncle's son - all within 15 days. 

I was overwhelmed each time a friend said they needed oxygen for their brother or hospital bed for their mother or an uncle or aunt - most of these people never made it.

There weren't enough beds in the Capital's hospitals, oxygen was being smuggled and sold at skyrocketing prices at obscure places and medicines and injections were unavailable even online. Private hospitals with next to no facilities were charging anything for a bed in an isolation ward where the patient often died all alone. They died in the big, fancy hospitals as well when oxygen supply would suddenly stop and ventilators would stop working. They too died all alone. No one knew if they would ever see their loved ones once they were taken to these isolated wards. Often they emerged wrapped in plastic body bags and their last rites were being done haphazatly without proper rights or rituals because of Covid protocals and because the lines outside the crematoriums and graveyards snaked like a railway track. People were now scrambling for contacts in police, administrative and even political circles to find a space for their loved ones for their last rites.

Lines for cremation

They died struggling and finally, accepting that death was the only truth while all of us scrambled around trying to find at least oxygen, or unavailable injections being sold at five to 10 times the original price in the black market. We didn't know anyone in the political circles or in the judiciary or bureaucracy who could help us jump the lines and get us a bed in a hospital with ICU facility.

When all else failed, we would scroll through the social media sites seeking help from strangers. The help would come but, often too late.

I was sad, I was helpless, I was ill and very, very angry at everything. All strong emotions on an empty stomach with infections in liver and kidney and a strong bug wrecking my guts. 

It was much easier to give up taking the steroids that were allowing to keep my oxygen above the 80s where it had fallen for a couple of days. The other options would be hospitalization or, getting medical care like, IV drip for the severe dehydration and oxygen at home. It was near impossible to get it the virus had peaked and people were dying outside and inside hospitals either waiting for a ventilator bed or, because the hospitals were running out of oxygen.

It was as if there was no end to the relentlessness of the situation. Friends and family, neighbors were trying their best from outside. I was getting tired of being prone on my stomach and thinking morbid thoughts as blood dripped from my nose and my ribs hurt, I knew that this is one enemy that's going to have me for good. 

I wrote to a couple of people I consider as my older sister and brother from other mothers to say how much their support and love had meant for me over the years. I didn't dare write such messages to the family and older people though. Most of them were either battling the disease or would be really scared by such morbidity. 

My friends from school and college kept calling and messaging me. Neighbors scurried around getting medicines, steamers and nebulizers as no pharmasy was picking up the phone or, if they did, they simply said, the medicine I wanted was not available. Some even refused to deliver since I don't use any money transfer App and they couldn't accept money from a Covid patient. I don't blame them.

Meanwhile, the people I had messaged my goodbye to also started messaging and calling me to boost me up and push me to take medicines. They tried their best to get a hospital bed or oxygen but, didn't succeed. But, seeing them try so hard for me along with my college friends scattered all over the country and the worls, I started feeling an urge to live. To meet each one of them and thank them. To hug them and laugh with them. 

My next door neighbor, an elderly person kept calling me three or four times a day wanting to know how I was doing or if my stomach was good enough to take some food. On days I said, 'yes I think I can manage a little food', he'd make a meal and not caring I had Covid, would slide a disposable pack of nourishing meal at my door. But, he'd never leave it outside on the staircase. 

On days when I wouldn't pick up, he'd knock on the door and keep waiting till I opened and said I was okay. Such kindness is rare and overwhelming coming from so many people - some cousins I had not spoken to in years because of our busy schedules were calling up regularly and boosting my morale and checking on me. 

Faith

A strange thing strated happening around this time. While mourning the loss of near and dear ones as well as thanking the universe for filling up my life with so much kindness, I started talking to God pretending She was there in the room with me. She became my mother and caregiver. 

I ate, slept and took medicines knowing She was around. I was overwhelmed when I felt her presence all through the nights when I couldn't sleep because each time I closed my eyes, my breath would choke and wake me up. I was begining to be drowsy all the time. I had the same problem sleeping even through the day. 

Divine Mother 

She would guide me through the scary thoughts into a more happier place or memory. When I worried about my father all alone in a hospital full of other patients or, about my mother who was very ill though not with Covid, She told me that they were getting better and if anything happened to me they would lose all the ground they had gained. I believed Her.

On some days She'd not answer my prayers all day but, come over at night and tell me She was very busy because there are so many people who need Her. It was true.

It all sounds crazy now but, it was Her presence in my life that saved me. In an empty apartment full of dark corners, the faith that She was there and holding my hands was enough for me to start healing. It maybe my faith or belief but, I need to tell this story to everyone - we will sink without faith because the virus enters the brain and takes the patient to a very dark place. 

The only thing that pulls you out is your will to live. I got mine from a warm presence that egged me on to make an effort, to surpass all negative thoughts and start eating, take my meds on time and wash and change my bedlinens every couple of days, to clip my nails, comb my hair, take baths on time - small things that we take for granted.

I realized that the virus had taken away the functions that that I was born with, hunger and breathing. It was  wrecking havoc in every organ including my brains. It was making me take a cocktail of drugs and still bypassing most. 

With the realization came a will to fight. Her presence filled me with courage and I started boiling vegetables and rice and started eating again. It took me a month for me to climb out of the vicious hole I had slipped into but, I crawled out inch by inch, buoyed by all the prayers I had been getting from all those people on my phone who I could not see but, who wanted me to win. 

It's been a couple of weeks since then and I have been hit by another bout of stomach troubles - post Covid problems according to the doctor. I have been fighting it for several days now. Sometimes I get tired and despair but, then I remember my struggle for a month with the monster and go about taking care of my basic routine. 

I know that this too shall go eventually but, till then, I am going to give it a fight. Bleak times sometimes last a long while but, it can't last forever. Nurture yourself to fulfill your destiny on earth. 

This is my most personal post till date. I have opened my heart and spilled my rotting guts here but, I wanted to do this because, it's an experience I wanted to share with everyone. Don't despair and don't give up on yourself. When in doubt, pray for yourself and you will find the way out of this viral mess called, Covid19.

Take care, stay healthy and say gratitude everyday. _/\_

Aas Paas Hai Khuda

The Body in a Ditch

The other day (about 10 days back) I decided to take the car and drive down to work instead of taking public transport.

In the hot and humid morning, everyone in the city is in a rush to reach their destination.

If a car breaks down on the road thus, slowing down traffic, everyone gives it a baleful look as they pass it by.

Having held up traffic many times in the past as a result of my ancient four-wheeler refusing to start up after being switched-off during a traffic signal, I know how it feels both ways.

But, that day, it was pretty festive. No one was complaining. Just that the traffic was slow.

As I reached nearer the general spot of the hold up, I could see people on my left side, standing on walls and lining against the road, craning their necks to see something on the other side. Having lived next to a 'nullah' (in Delhi) and a 'dried-up river' (in Bombay) for long enough, I knew there had to be a dead body around.

My first instinct was to look up at the trees on the other side, hoping to see a body hanging by one of the branches. But, I saw that people had climbed the walls and even the trees there and were looking this side.

Then, it occurred to me that they were perhaps, looking at something in the middle of the road.

By the time I looked, I was next to it.

Blue feet aimed at the skies above. Some policemen were moving it around. I got a 180 degree circle of stiff feet in the air. Some drivers, were looking decidedly green but, unable to move their eyes off it while others refused to increase their speed watching intently.

I was mesmerized for a second - there was a body in a ditch dug up in the middle of the road! Right on the divider! It was preposterous, said my mind. But, somehow my mind found it completely believable.

The rest of the body were still inside with only the feet making themselves visible with four inches of the ankle and that too was purple.

Definitely a young man's feet. It was dark but, unlined. No cracked heels. He was probably sleeping when he was picked up and killed. His striped pajamas were fluttering in the hot and moist morning air.

I had passed by the same place the previous evening around 8 pm and the road was choked with cars and two wheelers. When did the killers dump him there? Was the ditch there in the divider already there or did they dig it up at night? Was he killed yesterday or was he killed before? Maybe his dead body was lying in the ditch for a day or so before someone realized that the ankles belonged to a dead man! Maybe he was from the neighboring locality? Or was he brought from afar, killed and dumped here in the middle of the night?

In a city as large as Delhi with immigrant population pouring in every minute like a deluge, a life means nothing.

A death is at a pinch, a one morning drama.

Whether your remains are found in a ditch in a busy intersection or you die at home surrounded by a loving and caring family.

My mind never worried about who he was and who he had left behind. It just never crossed my consciousness.

Most people are not even grossed out by death any more nor moved. We live and breathe in a crowed atmosphere. There are so many people that life has become cheap. It does not matter that your blue and stiff dead body is found in a ditch one workday morning.

It does not even warrant a line in the daily news. Not even online. Not even when a colleague told me that he had passed that way a few minutes after me, when the body was taken out by the cops and it had a huge gaping slit in its throat. "It was blue because all the blood had seeped out of the body," he said in a matter-of-fact manner.

The excitement of the discovery and witnessing of the event by some of us did not even last a whole morning. Most of us had moved over to our daily tasks from the coffee machine where a few words were said about what a couple of us had seen.

Someone said, we could read about it in the paper or watch it on TV later. But, even before I could open my mouth with the superior knowledge of an erstwhile journo, another person said, "death of a single man does not warrant TV or newspaper coverage."

I smiled and went on to my desk. Yes. One person's death has no drama. Not enough pathos. It does not catch enough eyeballs. It does not bring out a sense of collective guilt among the masses, It is not newsworthy. It does not even fulfill the criterion of  '15 minutes of  fame!' How Warhol would have laughed at us!

Don't Scatter my Ashes in the River

Don't Scatter my Ashes in the River
I was born of dust and dreams, and to dust and dreams I'll go.
Scatter my ashes among the roses,
Let them feed the grass.
Let the wind pull it to a nest where it will line the twigs and warm the new born.
Don't scatter my ashes in the river.
Let it fly across.
Let it be free as my soul,
Let them cross each other's path on their way to a new town,
A new world, planet.
Whizz pass each other at the Milky Way.
I don't know if they will recognize each other in death.
In life they were lost to each other.
Maybe they will for the first time then, know that they were one on such a chance meeting.
Don't scatter my ashes in the river.
Let it be a part of the universe.
Let it be free.
Free to find the light it had recognized in life.
Let it remember what it knew and what it wanted.
Let it savour the freedom of death.
Unadorned, unstoppable, unblessed.
Let it find and recognize the soul in that cold roof of the earth.
Let it dance with the soul as its partner in the depths of dark jungles.
Let it find the rays of light in a stark desert that changes every moment.
From dune to dune let it roll till it moves into the light.
Find the soul.
And move together.
Into forever.
Till then, let it dance with the blue God on white hills.
Sing with the white goddess on blue waters.
Let it run naked with the mother,
Dripping red blood from tongue and wild hair.
Let it find all that was lost between life and death.
Let it find the light.
Let it be free.
Don't scatter my ashes in the river.

How Love Died

It was cold and bleak for days,
Love hovered at the doorstep,
Forlorn,
Lonely,
Shivering,
Hoping.
Gusts of wind,
Outrageously unfriendly and
Terribly icy,
Tore through its skin.
Love tried.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
No response.
Love pleaded,
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Love heard sobs from inside.
Love felt tears.
Love, knocked one last time.
Weak.
Sad.
Slow sounds.
The door opened a crack.
Love fell,
The heart stopped fluttering.
A last cold breath escaped frozen lungs,
Mingled with the winds.
Eyes shed tears.
Howled with the winds.
Too late.
Love was dead.

"Death ends a life, not a relationship." ~ Mitch Albom

I had shared this status once earlier as a quote on my Facebook Wall and lots of people had commented that people say a lot of crap to make money. I did not react that day. Today, I have a story to tell.
"Today she's gone. The old woman who used to sit in on the cold staircase outside my mom's home, just to speak with anyone who'd walk in home. She died two days back in her sleep. She was bent and wizened and did not speak in an easy-to-understand language.
But, she wanted to speak. She liked to laugh and she was perhaps lonely in a small flat that she shared with her son's family.
We all hurried past her. She was utterly embarrassing at times. Especially with me. She'd grin a toothless smile and make a silly gesture with her arms asking me when I'd bring children into the world. For her it did not matter that I had other achievements. Nothing mattered but the fact that I was a woman with no kids.
At first, I'd smile a painful smile through gritted teeth and walk away pretending not to understand what she meant.
After a while, I got used to her. I'd laugh with her and point at the sky. She'd laugh at me and we'd both smile at each other as if me not having kids was a universal joke hand-written by God for me.
For the first two days of her passing away I did not feel bad. She was very old. She was also cranky. I had often brought her home after catching her sitting on the footpath and chatting up with strangers who also did not understand her language. I'd see people laughing at her. She did not understand that they were laughing at her, so, she'd laugh along with them. I'd glare at them and ask if they had any work with her and then, bend down and pull the lady up and despite her protests bring her home.
Today suddenly when I met her grandson standing at the exact same place outside the gate and looking at nothing, I missed her. We looked at each other for a second and none of us smiled at each other because we both missed her in her death.
Suddenly I realized, no one will bother me any more about not having kids of my own and that made me feel a myriad different emotions that I could neither touch nor name. Death has only made our mutual joke into a relationship we never bothered to forge in life."

This is not the End

No, this is not the end.
The end will be glorious,
A riot of colors and frill.
With pink champagne to toast,
We'll celebrate till dawn.
Then, stagger home in the morning,
Kissing everyone on the road.
Gates will be bypassed,
Because we'll jump the walls.
There will be masks and make-up.
Also perhaps, a clown.
There will be fireworks, for sure, 
Oh Yes! And the customary countdown.
There will be shimmer and skin.
And flashbulbs on the red carpet.
Everyone will want to shake our hands,
And the band will play only our melodies.
No, this is definitely not the end.
Because the end would be grand.

The Death at the Protest

"Bye ma!"

She ran out of the house, a multi-colored floral jhola bag with flowers of every hue appliquéd into it trailed behind her in a rush even as she chomped on a paratha rolled into a tight cylinder in her small hands. Her red chiffon bandhni odhni fluttered like a full mast on a windy day.

"Thar she goes!"

Her brother retorted just missing a full-on collision at the doorstep.

"Haven't you heard of a thing called bath?" She parried back wrinkling her nose at him as he tried to scare her with a dirty football aimed at her direction.

"We men need fresh air and exercise unlike you..." He baited her rushing back and she fell hook line and sinker. Turning awkwardly on her wedges she wrilled around and shouted, "I exercise as well. Just don’t like making an exhibition of it unlike your kind..."

He opened his mouth to retaliate but was cut short by an impatient honking.

"Will you two quit it now? I have to go to work and Arushi, if you want to fight with your brother then please feel free to catch the Metro when you are done."

"Sorry dad! I'm coming..." She ran pell-mell and turned at the door of the car to face her brother who was openly hooting with laughter by now. Aiming a tongue at his face she mouthed a promise, "Evening idiot!" and shaking a fist at him got in through the passenger door.

It was a Saturday. College was closed for the weekend but, all of Arushi's classmates along with hundreds of other students, concerned citizens and seasoned activists were scheduled to sit-in a protest condemning the government and the city police in the case of a brutal rape and murder of a young student in a government-run hostel.

Her dad, who had a meeting near the center of the city, dropped Arushi off at a designated place where others from her class had congregated.

"Have a safe time kids!" He drove off, his mind on the business at hand.

                                                                      ***

The kids walked the short distance to the Governor's Bungalow where hundreds had already gathered. There were TV crews and Press journalists who seeing a bunch of obviously college-going kids made a bee-line for them.

"You have come here to protest on a cold misty weekend morning for a girl you didn't even know. What made you come all the way?"

A mike was thrust at Arushi's face. She realized with trepidation that she was on TV now. She stuttered for a second but then putting on a brave face said, "It could have been any of us."

"Do you feel unsafe in the University Campus?"

This time the camera had whirled to another in the group and Arushi took a deep breath remembering Andy Warhol's "15 minutes of fame" quote. She just had her 15 seconds she thought drawing in a deep breath and brushing it off with a shrug.

By afternoon, the crowd had swelled into thousands. Though the protests were still peaceful with only some people speaking to the gathered group from a make-shift dais, the governor had panicked and called in the reserve forces as well as the police. There were around 300 men in uniform - some with guns but most of them with batons who were hovering at the edges of the unarmed protesting gathering.

Queen started singing in her purse and Arushi pulled out her cell phone to see who was calling. Some of her fellow protesters turned around and smiled at her for her choice of ringtone. "I want to Break Free" could have been the anthem for today's protest. It could also be because the Queen's front-man, Freddy Mercury was actually Freddy Balhara, a Bombay born Parsi, a fellow Indian.

She clicked the Receive button cutting off the music and put the phone to her ear. "Sweetheart, where are you? Your dad and I are very concerned. They have called in troops to control a bunch of kids. Are you still there? Please come home now. You've made enough impact - I think."

Her mom's pleading voice filled Arushi's ears though most of what she was saying was lost in the noise around her.

"Mom we are fine. Some of our professors have also joined us and we are all together in a group. There are at least 4-500 of us from the campus. So, chill. We have done nothing but sit here under the tent and listen to some of the people speak on state of womens' rights in India."

Since further conversation was impossible as a well-known social activist joined the small group on the podium and a thunderous roar arose from the crowds to welcome her. Arushi disconnected the call and sent a message to her mom and on second thoughts to her dad. It simply said, "Don't panic. We're fine." A smiley face rounded the message.

As the new participant walked on to the mike and started her strong moving speech peppered with facts and figures the crowd started chanting, Vande Mataram! It was not a battle cry. It just meant, "Salutations to Motherland." It was an old slogan used by freedom fighters during India's struggle for independence, taken from a patriotic novel by a 19th century Bengali author.

It was used in all rallies, political or protest marches all across the country. It was used by the Army during battle. It was a part of the nation's history and nothing that was earth-shatteringly threatening.

But, to the ears of the men in uniform it sounded like a belligerent call for violence. With all the protestors still sitting and chanting Vande Mataram even the media (which had trained its eyes on the squatters who now looked rejuvenated) did not feel the need to turn around and check the police barricade. It was a peaceful protest after all.

The lady had by now finished her rousing speech and was ending it with the customary three calls for, Jai Hind, with everyone repeating it after her. All across the nation, everyone glued to their TV sets felt goosebumps rising on their arms as always. It was one of the most patriotic greeting that the nation knew of. Coined by the nationalist commander of forces of Indians fighting to free India from abroad, Subhash Chandra Bose, who was also the first Indian leader to give women the opportunity to march side by side with men in his Indian National Army, it was common parlance in the Indian political and bureaucratic system. Even the police and Army used it as a greeting.

No one saw it coming since everyone was busy with the lump in their throats till it landed with a plop and went hissing right at the middle of the congregation.

White fumes rose up making everyone's eyes water.

Girls shrieked many coughed into their hands, hiding desperately their watering eyes.

Someone from the armed contingent had dropped a tear-gas shell into the crowd of mostly kids, women, and elderly citizens. The media went into a massive overdrive as people ran helter-skelter to get away from the noxious fume that was by now filling the massive tent in its fog-like white darkness.

The shrieks intensified and one could now discern groans and crunches because many people had fallen down in the rush and others had either fallen on them since not much was visible through watery eyes and a melee rushing for fresh air.

If people had known that a fate worse than tears waited for them when they were smoked out like bees forsaking their hives they would have, perhaps preferred to shed copious tears.

As the crowd rushed out of the tent running blindly, knocking down each-other and then bending down to say sorry and even pulling up those who had fallen, they were met by armed police and commandos in bullet-proof jackets and helmets. The men in uniform were holding light shields made of bamboo, the kinds used during riots to keep off mobs.

The media was filming everything as best as they could. The teary-eyed reporters were facing the camera and showing the nation how a peaceful protest was now turning into a stampede of sorts. People across the country were sitting on the edge of their seats and staring dumb-founded at the drama unfolding. Many, whose family or friends were in the protest picked up their phone and started dialling.

Shrill rings filled the air both in the tent and outside. Phones rang in the myriad purses and pockets of the protesters. Many phones were lying on the carpet inside the tent and on the tarmac road - separated from the hands and pockets of the owners when they ran or fell down.

Some of them, that were not too badly damaged also added to the din. Then, the noise stopped as did time.

As the nation watched dumb-struck, several jets of cold water were sprayed on the public and many fell to the ground gasping for breath.

An old lady clutching the hands of the pre-teen, probably her granddaughter, fell on her knees and pushed the child under her to protect the kid with her body. A bunch of girls seeing the old woman trying so valiantly to save the child rushed to her aid and fell on top of her trying to cover the two. Arushi was one of them. Her phone like the phones of her other friends had suddenly stopped ringing a few seconds ago.

Her mom, who was now openly crying in front of the TV set. She saw her little girl on screen for the second time that day and looked up at her brother who was trying repeatedly to call her. The recorded message spoke monotonously, "All routes in this line are busy."

Frustrated, he looked at the TV screen and on seeing the drama unfolding in front of him sat down with a thud on the floor.

His sister and her friends who had rushed to save an old lady and a child from water canon were being kicked and beaten by three policemen wearing bullet vests and helmets. They were using batons and hard soles of their shoes to repeatedly rain blows on the girls and were pulling them by their hair and arms to separate them.

He started crying when he saw his sister had taken blows on her face and was bleeding through her nose and mouth. She was crying for help and many people tried to come to her aid but, they too met with the same fate as more and more policemen and troops gathered like vultures around them.

A reporter tried pushing his way into the circle and handing his mike to another protester, jumped heroically into the melee hoping to perhaps talk to the brutes in uniform but, he too got a vicious punch on the face, making it to the heap of bodies on the ground.

The boy looked at his mom now, staring at the TV screen - a look of terror masked her features and she looked pale as dead.

They both knew that Arushi was as good as gone but, try as they might, they could not look away from the TV set showing her being marauded to death. They did not want her to be a martyr. They wanted her to come home.

(This is a work of fiction and a totally imaginary account. Any resemblance to any person living or dead or to any incident is merely a co-incident and without any intended malice or hurt towards any person or community of people. - Shoma)

Christ by Edvard Munch

On Death and not knowing, 'What Next?'

Death is a great leveler. It closes potholes, smooths bumps and writes the closing chapter of each autobiography. We fear death because we do not know if there is anything beyond it. We are afraid to let go of the familiar. We are afraid to end our story or that of an important character in our book of life. We do not celebrate death as we should, instead cringe and cower at mere mention of it.

Death is never sudden. It takes us by surprise because we don't want it to come.

My professor who died young because of his consumptive habits used to, like a prophet of doom, scowl at us and thunder from the dias, "Death is the only reality of life." We thought he was drunk and rambling, which he was - most of the times - but, he was right.

Shaken by the death of a close friend's mother last year, a lady who loved me like her own and of several other parents of friends, I told another friend that I'd be happier to go before my own parents. 'I do not think that I can take their passing away'. He was polite enough to hide his shock of this declaration because he knows me well. He calmly said, "that is the most selfish death wish ever made."

Yes, it would be and a coward's wish at that.

There is no conning death.

I was reading the blurb of an Indie book recently and was stuck by its bizarre plot about 'Seducing Death'. The girl in question NEEDS to live and so, when she meets death suddenly one fine day and finds out that it's come to claim her, she decides to seduce it with promises of love and wild sex. It was beyond bizarre and obviously had found no publisher.

Jokes apart, I have seen enough people sparring with death and prolonging the final moment often prolonging the suffering of the ones they love. It is much more sensible to accept it as a reality and not be swayed by its fear.

However, that does not mean that we should not try holding death off till we are well and ready for it. We need time. We always need time to put things in order. We are never ready for death. We always think, it is a long way off. And then, it sneaks up on us, leaving us inconsolable.

It is a dark place when someone passes on. The emptiness seems universe deep. But, over time, one gets to accept death as an inevitability. I now go to funerals and pray for the family and friends of the person who has moved on and seek peace for the soul. In my mind it has become a fact. It is something that NEEDS to happen.

Nature teaches us about death as pattern or a cycle. Autumn, dries up and kills everything. Winter is hard and bitter. We miss the warmth and the greenery. But then comes Spring. New life emerges and the world becomes beautiful, green becomes the base and shows off hundreds of other colors in the blooms that take over the Earth. It is a time to celebrate birth. Summer is the time for action, it resembles life. We need to finish all our tasks during Summer. It often burns and singes us but, so does life. Autumn is as inevitable as Spring and we need to remember that at all times.

Death is a part of the rhythm of life and it follows a pattern. Most of us miss the pattern that is visible right from the day we are born. Death is the only truth. I lost a brother a few hours after birth but, I never gripped the truth - not even when I saw my mother grieving silently over a child she had never had the opportunity to hold in her arms for many years. I was too young and my parents too protective. It was never discussed openly. In time I got used to her silent tears.

Now, I wish it was discussed more openly. It would have been a great opportunity for me to accept death when it struck my loved ones and left empty spaces in my life. Not discussing it then, made me a coward and made me weak. It also made me feel like the Colossus or an immortal. Death always seemed far away. Till it stuck those I loved and cared about.

I wonder at times, if death will come as a swift and sudden attack like an enemy bent on rushing me off kicking and screaming or if it would be a welcome friend come as a relief from all the troublesome choices I have made in this life?

It may come as one or the other but, while it lurks in some dark corner waiting for me to finish my time, I must clear my desk everyday and not leave anything important for tomorrow like, telling people who love and appreciate me, how much they mean to me.

Death is the vigilante lurking around us reminding us to not take time for granted. So, wash your hair and paint your toes. After all, don't you want to go looking your best?

To Die is to Live Again

'To live is to die a little everyday. But, I love the resurrection part. Death is all the strength I need to rebuild life from scratch.' This thought stuck me recently and made everything clear.

Struggling through life is a norm for most people. We fall flat on our faces and then, like new born calves, try again and again till we are finally able to stand erect supporting our weight on our own two legs. But, it does not end there. Each time we hit a road bump, there we go falling flat on our faces once more.

In my last post, I wrote about famous people who had fallen but, rallied back to great success. This time I want to share the result of my own introspection on failures. 

It is pretty frustrating to fall. I know because, I am constantly slipping and falling both physically as well as in life. However, a very strong realization hit me recently as a result of the critical introspection that I had been doing of my personal and professional failures to understand, 'what was I doing wrong?'

It is an exercise I started last year and today, I am glad to share my understanding because it shattered a few of my own precious myths.

First thing I understood was, 'why?' 

In certain cases I slipped because I was not looking, I was careless. However, these were outnumbered by situations where I fell because I was too focused and too cautious. The learning - 'sometimes it is fine to follow instincts and react - we all have great instincts'.

One thing that shone through this period of introspection was the ability to almost always adapt to and bounce back, no matter how bad the situation. I keep flowing with the tide till my feet find ground once more. This was good news!

In my single-minded determination to pursue goals I fail because I become blind to everything else. It confines my dreams. At times it also makes me selfish and insensitive to other peoples' points of views. It is more often than not, a cause of downfall because I end up working in isolation. Sometimes I even withdraw because I'm worried that others will steal my ideas and at others, I am scared to share because I worry about the butt of joke I'd become if my endeavor fails.

I realize that to win, I need to improvise at every step and seek partnership. There are hardly any achievements that have been won in isolation. Everyone needs a team or at least a partner who has their back.

Sometimes I also lost despite a team/partner because I was not paying enough attention. I was so busy working on my plan that I never knew what was happening around. Sometimes, it pays to be in touch with everyone, to keep a finger on the pulse of those around you. Maybe they are trying to tell you something that would have acted as the missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle or perhaps, they are not looking out for us at all, instead are busy in something else hence, leaving your back unattended. Often, I have been saved from trouble because I was constantly in touch with the team but, sometimes, either due to work pressure or some other reason when I did not, I'd found myself in a situation that pulled me down.

I also learnt that whatever happens, a learner never fails. S/he reinvents and strikes back. This is only possible by keeping our hopes alive and strongly hold on to our faith in self.

The key to success is to believe in your dreams. If I cannot dream I'll cease to exist. In my dreams I am unlimited and unvanquished. I am a winner already! At times it seems outright impossible. This makes me feel helpless, hopeless but, this is when I remember that this is not the end, the end is far from it.

I was recently watching the film, 'The Pursuit of Happyness' starring Will Smith. It is the real life story of a single dad's struggle to care for his 5-year-old and go after a dream that makes him start from scratch, live out of bags, even spend a night in a public toilet but, he does not give up. He despairs but, does not allow it to effect his performance and in doing so, turns over a new leaf in the story of his life and that of his son.

We all need to follow our dreams, whatever they may be, no dream is silly or small. They all have the potential to change our lives and that of those around us. We must hold on to them and improvise whenever we hit a road block. Every time we fail to make our dream a reality we die a little, but, each time we need to brush off that feeling of death and resurrect it in a new blue print. Never stop improvising, never stop adding.

I have bounced back every time and kept my sanity because, I have always lived my dreams. It is what has kept me floating.

This is great story by a life coach that I read today. It simply speaks about a person in deep despair because he'd lost his confidence and had sought out the help of the coach. This is the conversation that took place:

"Mentor: What was the strongest emotion you felt recently and how recent was it?

Person (after an incredulous pause): I was very angry just six hours back when my car was stuck in a jam.

Mentor: So, what happened to that anger? Where did it go in the last six hours after the incident?

Person (after an even longer pause and a smile at the end of it): It's there inside me..."

Yes, it never goes away, your dreams are always alive and right there inside you. Don't you ever forget that. Go make them real!

You are whatever you want to be and no one can steal your dreams unless you give them up without a fight.

Death Means One Hug Less

"Death is the only truth of life", he'd roar and I'd roll my young eyes thinking, 'cliche!'.
He reeked of rum but his razor sharp tongue was commanded by brains that missed nothing.
Fighting tooth and nail, leaping fearless into brawls, he was Quixotic not heroic.
But when I got the mail that he'd passed away, I cried, knowing it meant one hug less for me.

The end

On Conquering Death (Sometime in Future)

'I declare, I have conquered death.

I shall die no more but, rise to tell the tale.

I reject love and I reject pain. I win.'

At my speech, death laughed and opened its arms.

And I dropped wordlessly into its embrace.

Death came not a moment too soon; But, I was unprepared,

Soaking in the standing ovation at my declaration.

I thought I had time, I ruled my heart, my head.

As the ship that believes the sea its mistress.

I too sunk without a trace.

As darkness turned to light;

I saw hands. A million claws.

Dirty, grimy, seedy fingers reaching for me, I shivered.

Fire snapped and I reached out to warm my hands. 

Death kissed my forehead and said, "come, it will be fun."

My hands were soon joined with the others.

We were just hands, holding on for sanity.

Hoping, praying and dying a little everyday.

Clutching the beads, waiting, watching, looking out for death.

Death came often and held our hands checking them for roughness.

One day, death held my hands for a while;

I shivered, feeling suddenly, my body beyond my hands. 

Was I alive? Death did look worried. Had it lost a victim?

I felt nothing, no elation, no emotion, no hunger or joy.

Was this a miracle? Had I had finally died to conquer death?