Death it is...

 

Weird thing this death business, a spectacle of cosmic jests and mortal waltzes. Wisdom (sic!) tells me that all life's footfalls must one day halt, save for the resilient cockroach.

For years, I fancied myself a maestro of farewells, tutored in the art by none other than Dad himself, a seasoned veteran in his tangoes with the Grim Reaper since 1997. The four times he came close to exit, each a jest played upon mortality's stage was a standing joke. So, when I embarked on my journey to Mangalore on February 4th, hearing that he’s at that fateful door again, I fancied myself 'prepared,' a guise of fortitude donned in anticipation of the inevitable.

Entering the ICU on that Sunday morning, I saw, not the frail specter of impending departure, but the vibrant visage of the father I knew, brimming with life's spark, counting the hours to see me. His whimsy demanded the forbidden indulgence of chicken biryani within the sterile confines of the intensive care unit. We reveled in the joy of bending the rules, a gleeful rebellion against the solemn dictates of circumstance.

In the days that followed, as Dad danced on the precipice of eternity, our discourse turned to matters of mortality. He, the sage puppeteer, orchestrating his final act with mischief in his eyes, and I, the eager acolyte, entranced by his whimsical defiance of fate. Yet, beneath the laughter lay a solemn truth, whispered in the hush of bedside conversations—his weariness, his longing for release.

It took me 2 days to finally listen, really listen to Daddy. He was tired, mentally, and physically. He wanted to die. He wanted us to understand and accept.

His desire was to go home, his final pilgrimage from the sanctuary of familiar walls. In the ensuing four days, amidst tender embraces, feeding and cleansing his frail body, I was weaving threads of acceptance and grace into the fabric of our farewells.

At 12:15 pm on Thursday 15 February, after he drank his favorite pomegranate juice, Dad said, 'Finished' and I said, ‘Yeah the juice is done’ and he gently shook his head until I understood that he was referring to his journey on earth.

I looked into his eyes and said, 'Yes Daddy, it is. Go in peace'. He tried to mouth something I didn't get, and I kept asking him to repeat it until I realized that he was saying Jesus.

I asked him, 'Is your Jesus calling you?' Daddy nodded yes. I said, 'Then you should go'. He gently closed his eyes, and it looked like he was in a deep slumber.

Now back to this death business, methinks that had I gone to see my Dad in a casket, I would have the burden of the if-only’ s, the would haves, could haves, should haves.

Instead, I'm effused with peace and a sense of accomplishment. I spent ten priceless days with my father, flouting every rule of what he could and couldn't eat and drink. Fun conversations, deep debates when he would gently reprimand me and I would ask him, 'How can I be any different, after all whose daughter am I?' to him fragile as he was, proudly pointing to himself; the laughter, tears, cuddles and above all love in its purest form.

I know it was inevitable, I knew it was the way things are meant to be, but I didn't see this one coming.

This hollow feeling that a fundamental need is unsatisfied and will never be fulfilled.

This feeling of death.

Of the living.

Mine.

His heart stopped at 5:15 pm and I switched off his oxygen concentrator and in that sacred silence, as his spirit took flight, I bade adieu to not only a father but to the child within, cradled in the warmth of his unconditional love.

My father thought I was brave, strong, capable and beautiful. The child that thrived in the complete faith he had in me, died with him.

I celebrate my father's life and mourn the death of the daughter I was.

She’s my trouble… What to do

 Is what I’d like my epitaph to read.

So, when the children were young, they’d listen to music not conducive to the prescribed norm and when Rod Stewart belted out Van Morrison’s ,"Have I told you lately that I Love You"… a 3 year old Alder would chime along and end with “She’s my trouble… what to do” in parody of “Ease my troubles… that’s what you do” and glance at me meaningfully.

Was for me an avowal. Trouble is everlasting. Good times are fleeting. Now call me out on this. Please. I dare you.

Like the year this is. Jeez, we’ve been lamenting about the misery and the misfortune and doomsday blah blah. Call me out on this. I dare you.

Cut the crap. Really. We’re alive, every breath we take is a testament to the fact that we’re still kicking. Our ability to ‘function’ as ‘normal’ is impaired. Our grand plans are stalled. We’ve lost loved ones. Lost vocations, vacations and ill-advised fornications. Lost our means for living. Lost avenues for loving. Our ship seems rudderless. Our flights (more of grandiose and fancy) are grounded.

Yet I’m here penning this and you’re here reading this.

More than a little tired of the lamentations, doomsday conspiracy theorists, religious nuts, conformists, rebels, fatalists, and pessimists. A lot more than a little actually.

Yes the year has been a challenge but excuse me, who exactly declared that one is ‘entitled’ to a life that’s sans strife and curve balls?

The measure of a fulfilled life is how one battles on despite the bellows of the Taurus or the gauge of a cannon or even the lure of a mermaid.

We’re dished out infested broth, worse than served at Guantanamo Bay. From hangovers of a miserable childhood to relationships that crippled us to circumstances that stunt us to careers that impaled us. Yeah, it happened. Unfortunate, unwarranted, unforgivable. Like this year, 2020.

Choices… choices on how to process them.

If one believes that we’re here for the long haul and that it’s peachy cream all the way, time to swallow the BS?

Stock check time, Christmas is… for me.

Despite all the vagaries of the current environment and its uncertainties I’d like to believe this has been a year that was bloody brutal yet hauntingly authentic. Of acceptance, elevation and zen. To that which is stronger than self. To the fears that surfaced and made us question our mortality, self-importance, impotence and incompetence.

End this soppy outpouring on a positive, placating note?  Nopes.

 In 1949, J. E. Lawrence in the Nebraska State Journal said:

"New land is harsh, and vigorous, and sturdy. It scorns evidence of weakness. There is nothing of sham or hypocrisy in it. It is what it is, without an apology."

Suck it up and swallow.

Sniff while you’re at it.

Smile too.

Pleasurable really.

This life… she’s my trouble… What to do!

Doobious thoughts...

 ‘The Social Dilemma’ movie on Netlfix though has many takeaways, the one that stayed with me was the conclusion that the intent of social media sites was never the current status quo where our thought process and choices are manipulated via AI systems.

Add to that was the centenary celebration video released by St. Agnes College Mangalore, the educational institute I spent 14 years in. Watching the video did cause my C cups to distend. The pictures circa 100 years ago as well as the motive behind women’s education in an age where the primary goal of a woman was servitude is awe inspiring.

Momentarily however.

The commentary that “The shaping of a woman though rooted in values yet soars on the wings of autonomy of thought and action sums up perfectly the role of the Agnesian Alma mater” caused the sinsemilla calmed nerves to leap into a frenzy of WTF.

A tirade is marching on furiously in my head and I’m knuckling down to keep it at bay lest this seems a vitriolic expose’. I’m sure there are many women who found wings to soar and it must have enhanced the quality of their lives.

My experience was different as I rebelled against the conditioning. Well it’s no secret that I was a terrible student and failed almost every exam, add to the fact that I had no fear of authority, academics bored me and I couldn’t shut up. Terrific recipe for disaster in any school really.

Leads me to think that almost all grand plans begin with the right intent, whether educational institutions, social media, ideologies, social and charitable organizations and the like. The intent being the augmentation of the human spirit.

Somewhere along the line we lose the plot. To me that is the direct result of ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely’. Not dwelling on this as I use the wax for another purpose this time.

Secessionist me balks at the fallacies we employ to justify our actions and thinking, to ourselves and others. To a degree that the sanctification which began as a simple lie becomes the truth even in our own minds.

“Repeat a lie often enough and it becomes the truth”, is a law of propaganda often attributed to the Nazi Joseph Goebbels. There must a Nazi in most of us, yours truly included as we have this insatiable need for the sanctions of others, to this end we fabricate what seems like harmless confabulations which culminate in altering the truth until it is replaced by our version of it especially in ethical actions.

I listen to reminisces of the elderly and I question my sanity as I do not remember the incidents they narrate in quite the same fashion, my dad talks about things that I’m pretty certain are a figment of his imagination but then I brush it off as senility.

When my friends and acquaintances however resort to distortion I struggle with calling them out on the BS. Oh and this is singular to myself too. The whoppers I’ve indulged in over time are enough to make my face transmogrify into a congress of female baboon butts. Yeah, that crimson!

Now that we’re talking bottoms, the line I’d like to end with is… the truth however ugly, is empowering. It’s fine to be a shithead as long as you recognize you are one and try to better it. It’s fine if you fail, you’re learning. The journey begins with being true, to yourself.

And with that it’s to doobie or not doobie…

A musings...

 Anjali and I were discussing Samira’s English assignment and were debating on the right answer to the question and Sam pipes, but there is no right answer, it’s in the interpretation. Out of the mouth of babes!

Can’t help but lament that the English teachers we had, had no background in teaching the classics really, not their fault I guess. It was the system and methinks this continues to date in Indian schools. We were taught poetry and prose and they all had to have a definitive answer, which is ridiculous. I get it that that there are rules to transcription that one needs to follow. Rather than teaching us those metrics, we were encouraged to accept the teacher’s understanding of the text. 

Similar to the formula applies to our grasp of life itself. Our culture/parents/environment/religion have conditioned us to believe that there is indeed a set blueprint we need to live by, which we do mindlessly and those who don’t are labeled.

Began the process of debunking theories and walked away from that which didn’t nourish growth of the soul. I ponder over the tenets of my rather shallow existence and find myself delving deeper into the recesses of the self. 

As I try to get down to the brass tacks, I examine my actions currently and compare them with how I used to emote. The amount I cringe at the many perspectives and the demeanor employed to execute them ensures that there are some muscles that are growing tighter, kegelly!

We are a bloody judgemental lot and that is the hardest shackle I’m trying to break free of. Almost at two score and ten years of age and yet I feel like I’m beginning afresh.

I have a deep appreciation of the Dutch culture and their ability to prioritize on and abide in the theory of individualism over collectivism. Of the conviction they exude in living their lives sans the prescription that I was raised with. To religion, morality, culture, affiliation, orientation, nation and the neighborhood gossip.

Nopes, not generalizing here. Like we have oddballs in our culture, I’m sure they do too. 

Not a lament on my background and culture either. Stating a fact as I see it. I do wish however that I employed the same with my children and allowed them the freedom to figure out which shade of the rainbow they are instead of deciding for them which they should be.

Well, one learns and I must say it’s liberating. Go easy on others and above all yourself is the current mantra. Life has no formula except one, kindness. The rest is BS.

Endgame...

The spate of suicides we’re hearing about has added an edge to the current environment and I suppose the outpouring of emotion is also colored by our own exigencies.

Each of us is trying to rally on and believe that there is a swift end to the unreal world we exist in the now.

That there is a reason for this; from God’s wrath, Karma’s troth, Nature’s retribution and Conspiracy attribution.

Rationalizations we indulge in make sense to each of us uniquely based on our filters and perceptions.

Much as we’d like to extol our fatalistic and accepting virtues, mere mortals that we are rally against the eventuality of dying.

Among the most celebrated poems on death the one that stays with me is Dylan Thomas’s:

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Says much about our humble acquiescence!

We’re posting on social media about reaching out and being there for each other while trying to make sense of the suicides. I even received a call this morning from an ex colleague after a decade!

Kudos to the lovely gestures, here’s my two bit. I cannot swallow all the time, need to spit too. Well actually gargle. One of my loony friends believes that the expression of true love is not swallowing but gargling. So there you go.

While we’re passing judgments on SSR and lending a ear to those who may need it, let’s ask ourselves if we find it easy to reach out?

The dark night and the burden of its dead weight is the yoke my shoulders are insidiously granulating under

Desolate seems the landscape of morrow

Dying by the minute is the beacon of the lighthouse

Rally on you say and…why?

Walked a meter in my shoes have you?

Ever been the melted marshmallow in my s’more?

Judge if you must if it's cowardice or bravado…

I decide when my race is run

And with a slit of my wrist, the deed is done

Hello people… the above is NOT a avowal of intent NOR plea for sympathy, empathy, pathi and all that bull crap.

It’s an honest recant of how I feel sometimes and I’m not very sure of how many people have in certain times in their lives felt the same. 

Maybe my conviction was not very strong and that’s what stopped me or maybe I grew tired of my own drama and said to myself, ‘shake it off you little f*ck’ and perchance it’s my keeda that said, ‘oh but you have so much more havoc to wreak’. 

Playing out my funeral in my head has helped as well (I have cried such bitter tears for me in that coffin than anyone ever will for sure!) as I have imagined my parents and children’s countenances and ditched the grand plans.

Ah back to suicide, depression is an illness and let’s not discount that. Is it easy for someone to reach out to a friend or an acquaintance, may not be so. 

Have you been a friend who has been nonjudgmental, accepting and evoked a deep sense of faith and trust? 

Could I randomly call you with all that assails me? 

Will you call me when you’re in the dumps? Do you think I will hear and help? 

Will you feel foolish like I do? 

Are you afraid that you will be laughed at or worse a topic for gossip?

Does the admonishment or lecture you are likely to get stop you?

When your friend begins to isolate, rather than allowing your ego to chafe, maybe watch for other signals of depression and get them to accept medical help. 

Similar with us as individuals, when you recognize that you don’t have your game together, reach out to gossamer strings that bind your soul and towards professional help. 

It’s an illness like all other and if we can have no qualms about talking about a visit to the physician, why balk at an appointment with a psychologist/ psychiatrist.  

Finally, let’s stop passing judgement on the decisions people make, to live or die. To each his own.

Mine...

Yesterday, for the first time ever, I presented a book review.

The book I chose was Ayn Rand’s ‘The Fountainhead’ a book I read again for the fifth time and each time I find new meaning and takeaways.

I winged it like I normally do. Sigh! The universe however seemed to conspire in my favor  as I received decent feedback on the presentation.

Truth be told I’m a lazy f*ck. If I can get away with my apparent charm (sic!) or the apparent illusion of someone who’s got their game, I will.

I did spend some time on the speech draft and while I was writing it, a few hours before the presentation I was nervous (a rare occurrence) and worried that I wouldn’t do the book the justice it deserves.

Time to present and I do so with absolute joy, the abundance of which all else seems pallid and it did! For the 7 odd minutes I was in a state of pure euphoria and ecstasy.

Post the review, I got to hear that it was decent and was thanked. Which confounded me really, I didn’t do anything that stemmed from altruism, I did it for myself, for the absolute pleasure it gave me.

Books are my lifeblood, the gossamer strings that bind my soul and the juice that fuels my engine.

Ironic the choice of the book really. The Fountainhead is all about the individual over collectivism.

Posting below an excerpt from Howard Roark’s speech below:

“It had to be said: The world is perishing from an orgy of self-sacrificing. I came here to be heard in the name of every man of independence still left in the world. I wanted to state my terms. I do not care to work or live on any others. My terms are: A man's RIGHT to exist for his own sake.”

The book review was what I did, for my own sake. Which got me thinking, in much of this drama called life we do things that resonate with us intrinsically. 

Yet we cloak it in a mantle of self-sacrifice and make it seem like we’re doing it for others.

Time to call out one’s bullshit, mine primarily.

I exist, for myself. Much of what I do is because it makes me happy. And I’m finally not ashamed to say it.

My choices on how my life should be and who needs to be in it stems from my need to feel fulfilled.

Within my core.

Fumble, stumble and crumble I will. But will find the faith that Christ’s doubting disciple lacked at first and discovered later.

Mine! and I claim it. Without apology.

Them Blemishes...

Growing old doesn’t plague me as much as growing up (not happening!) does. However, one must respect the law of gravity and what it does to one’s bodies.

I try not to look in the mirror often but when I do, the blemishes I’m developing on my face bother me.

Decided to check with my gynecologist who I was visiting for my hot flushes/ flashes and let me explain, not of the amorous kind, although these want me to tear off my clothes too!

Web MD: “Hot flashes are one of the most common signs of perimenopause, the years leading up to menopause. Intense heat starts in your chest and rises to your neck and head. Beads of sweat grow until perspiration run down your face. It’s a hot flash due to menopause, and it’s a loooong five minutes until it passes. Multiply that by 20 or 30 and you can call it a day.”

So my doctor grimly announces that it’s my genetics and perimenopause that affects the unbecoming blotches on the face and prescribes an anti-blemish cream. Hey Ho!

While I was applying it on my face after a shower a few minutes ago, the question popped, you’re working on eliminating the blots on the façade, what about those on your soul? 

Heaven knows there’s enough there to qualify for a many splendored speckled mosaic. Pun intended.

No seriously, why is the assiduity to the exterior exigent, while to the interior inconsequential. How am I working on refurbishing the innate quirks that desperately need redress. 

One of my multiple personalities is giggling like a meth addict while another has merely raised a lazy eyebrow languorously supine on a hammock, the other pushes the faith of my parents for answers and then there’s one who gently counsels.

The sully doesn’t define me, there’s room for improvement for sure and it may not be via enslavement, apathy or religion but needs to stem from the soul.

How I'm going to action the thought may well be the strength of my character (not from the theater of the absurd I hope) and the verisimilitude of my mettle. 

Blame-ish on me!