tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70373852024-03-16T06:39:53.844+05:30Remains of the DayUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger670125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-53426930343073373662023-12-04T15:48:00.008+05:302023-12-05T05:29:07.182+05:30In Defense of Cognitive Biases, contd.<p>Earlier essay: <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2019/12/in-defense-of-cognitive-biases.html" target="_blank">In Defense of Cognitive Biases</a>.</p><p>Recently I came across this very good video on the cognitive bias related to "Loss Aversion".</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vBX-KulgJ1o" width="320" youtube-src-id="vBX-KulgJ1o"></iframe></div><br /><p>A famous science popularizer asks many people whether they would take a bet with an expected return of $10, and many say "No". He criticizes their bias, gently, but does not go into the value of having this bias.</p><p>Can this bias be explained? Why does this bias exist? What is the survival advantage in having this bias?</p><p>Let us ask the question in the video in another way so as to make it more obvious why the bias makes sense.</p><p>Let us assume, as is supremely reasonable and rational, that you value the life of your infant child. Let us say a genie suddenly appears and offers you the following proposition:</p><blockquote><p>If you toss your infant in the air, I offer you two possible outcomes: Your infant will die, or it will have double the lifespan that it is currently fated to have.</p></blockquote><p>What would any normal individual do? Of course they would choose to NOT participate in the bet at all. The loss of their child is a far bigger tragedy than the joy at having the child live twice as long.</p><p>Survival is the prime directive. For survival, avoiding situations which contain risk, pain and duress is important. If you have a house, losing that house is going to have a drastic impact on your well-being, but being gifted <i>another</i> house is not going to matter as much.</p><p>Coming back to the offer in the video above, an individual has a certain amount of money. They have that as an assurance that their immediate needs will be fulfilled, and that, as an example, they will be able to buy a bus ticket for back home, or have a meal. They have sufficient money for that.</p><p>When offered a scenario in which they can lose that money, their loss aversion is rational, sensible and reasonable. They have something to gain, but they were not counting on that gain, and they don't know what that gain will get them. But they do know what that loss will mean to them.</p><p>And even if offered multiple chances to play the bet, with each bet having the expected value of $10 to them, a reasonable individual could <i>still</i> rationally refuse to play. Why? Consider that it is possible that you can lose the first few rounds and be down $40, and have no more money to play the game. Yes, eventually you will come out a winner, but will you survive till then?</p><p>If you value your survival, and have a limited amount of resources -- and the limitation of resources is almost always a fact, and is hard-wired into our brain -- it is rational to avoid needless betting of your resources.</p><p>Most people choose safety, and wisely so, over speculation.</p><p><i>(And of course, the weird scenario of a stranger offering you an easy way to make money triggers the scam alert in our brain. Instead of investigating the alert and marking it as a false positive, it is a good idea to ignore the scam altogether, especially if the scam scenario is not important to you.)</i><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-66816988284754088382023-11-04T17:12:00.000+05:302023-11-04T17:12:04.240+05:30Music for the Spirit<p>When I was in college, I happened to pick up an audio cassette for the soundtrack of Chariots of Fire, composed by the recently departed Greek composer Vangelis. I had no idea that that would be the start of a long joyous journey into music which calms and uplifts the spirit.</p><p>When I first came to the US, my roommate had a CD of Enya's The Memory of Trees, and listening to it on his Bose AM-10 speakers continues to be a fond memory.</p><p>I grew up in Punjab, an agricultural region not known for slow or lilting music. I found Vangelis and Enya as I stepped out of Punjab, and on my long drives through deserts and canyons, their music was my friend.<br /></p><p>Over the years, decades rather, I have had the great good fortune of being exposed to music which had Enya and Vangelis as the initial milestones. In the late 90s and early 2000s, it was the other works of Vangelis and Enya, the Benedictine Monks, the Canadian singer Loreena McKennitt, the mix-and-mash of Enigma (which is retrospect I consider inferior in spirit) and Arvo Pärt. And not to leave behind the music of India, some somber ragas sung by Pandit Jasraj and Kishori Amonkar. </p><p>Some of that music has stood the test of time, and is still very dear to me.</p><p>If you visit a great vista and are speechless at the sight of a mountain peak, that is alone, ancient and silent, you wish that those who you love also one day witness that glory. Similarly, there is the desire to share a great composition with your friends.</p><p>Music these days is less "eternal". Songs and compositions grow in popularity quickly, and then die of disinterest. The market rules. There is little patience in understanding and appreciating the nuances of a composition that has a certain mood and depth.</p><p>In recent times, music as therapy has caught on. On YouTube, one finds 8 or 10-hour tracks of what they call "binaural beats", and thousands of renditions of ancient chants or prayers. I am sure they help alleviate the stresses of modern life.</p><p>Just today, I have started listening to the the artist Chuck Wild's compositions in his "Liquid Mind" series, and that is a great introduction to this kind of music. <br /></p><p>Rather strangely, I have not found it beneath me to admire, at times, what is otherwise called trance music. That music is mostly electronic, and aimed at a young audience ready to party on the beach, but some of those compositions can, I believe, hold their own against a Pandit Jasraj.</p><p>Here are some tracks from the last few decades that I would love you to listen, and enjoy, and treasure:</p><p>Enya's Hope has a Place<br /></p><p>Loreena McKennitt's The Mummer's Dance</p><p>Vangelis' Eric's Theme (from Chariots of Fire)</p><p>Vangelis' El Greco Movement I</p><p>Cliff Martinez' And Death Shall Have no Dominion (from Solaris)<br /></p><p>Angelo Badalamenti's Mysteries of Love</p><p></p><p>Above and Beyond's Flow State & Sunshine in your Eyes<br /></p><p>Joe Satriani's Rubina's Blue Sky Happiness</p><p>Mahakatha's Om Namaste Asatu</p><p><br /></p><p>There are so many more, but I hope starting with these, you will find your own path in this kind of music.<br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-49101812649509823152023-02-10T15:52:00.001+05:302023-02-10T15:52:31.111+05:30The Wisdom of Suffering<p>This is in continuation of the last essay, <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2023/02/wisdom-and-suffering.html" target="_blank">Wisdom and Suffering</a>.</p><p>People consider physical pain to be reasonable, but mental and emotional pain ("suffering") to be somehow "wrong". The teaching of many a spiritual or spiritualist teacher is to move toward and eventually attain the "end of suffering". That is misguided, to put it mildly.</p><p>To make this essay more interesting, let us annotate a particular expression of this teaching, as contained in "<a href="https://www.shamashalidina.com/blog/pain-suffering-story">The two arrows - Pain and Suffering — ShamashAlidina.com</a>".</p><blockquote><p>You are walking in the woods and suddenly you get struck by an arrow (someone fires an arrow at you) and it hits your arm and it really, really hurts - it's very painful and you feel that physical pain in your arm, and it's bleeding. And then immediately your mind starts to think - "Oh my god, what's gonna happen? What if I bleed to death? What if this is infected and I can't walk back properly? Or I lose energy and I can't get back to my family? What's gonna happen to my family? What's gonna be happening to my husband / my wife / my children? What's gonna happen to me or what’s going to happen to their future, how will they be doing?”</p></blockquote><p>Firstly, humans have the amazing capability to look beyond the immediate. The physical pain is there. But it would be infantile to just respond to that. </p><p>To continue in the vein of the story, the thoughts of a reasonable man may be: Why did someone fire that arrow at me? Should I protect myself from further arrows? Is it possible that I need to seek medical attention? Is this life-threatening? If so, do I need to not just seek medical help, but also perhaps worry about my family?</p><p>Of course, one can be unreasonably scared, but the mind is hardly perfect. It is perhaps only in hindsight that one can evaluate whether all the worry was justified or whether it was an overreaction. With experience, one can learn to overreact less.</p><blockquote><p>The Buddha describes the first arrow as the physical pain and the second arrow is what your mind does - it starts thinking about the worst scenario that can happen. And he says "be warned of the second arrow." </p></blockquote><p>What is wrong with what the mind does, the "second arrow"? The mind is doing its job. Trying to quickly and crudely respond to a threatening situation with a bumble of thoughts. A trained soldier will respond less crudely, and perhaps know of tourniquets and how to camouflage himself to be safe from further attacks, etc., but a normal individual has no such training. If in addition to a lack of proper training, one is foolish enough to be guided by the spiritualists to not engage the mind as it furiously scans the scenarios and possible outcomes, one is not likely to survive.</p><p>The mind evolved as a survival tool. It is <i>because</i> of our mental prowess that we have been wildly successful in outclassing all other species on this planet. Spiritualists are the sworn enemies of the mind and the intellect, because their goal is a thoughtless bliss, and not an increase in wisdom and understanding.</p><blockquote><p>The first arrow is represents the pain - the actual physical pain, and the second arrow represents what you call suffering. So we distinguish between pain and suffering. </p></blockquote><p>Mental processes are not per se, suffering. They are the <i>human </i>response to a situation. The mind utilizes its collection of learning and instincts to respond to a challenging situation. These responses are usually far more optimal, but to give up on the mind is an even bigger mistake. One can train the mind, but to be only in the "here and now" is an invitation to living as an animal or an infant.</p><p>Which worry is reasonable, and which worry is imaginary? You cannot know except by experience.</p><p>Consider the response of the passengers in Flight 93 on Sep 11, 2001, a flight doomed to crash and kill them all. They fully expect to die, and are faced with fear, and thoughts for their family. Many of them called their loved ones on the phone to send a last message of love. One can imagine some of them telling their wives of a document in their bedroom drawer which details the various bank accounts. Would the Buddha have called his wife, if he was on Flight 93?</p><blockquote><p>Pain is something that's inevitable, we all experience that. But the suffering is something that we actually create. But we don't realise that. </p></blockquote><p>Even pain is subjective, and is created because of a living being's response to a stimulus. Similarly, our thoughts and worries are our responses to a situation. This second category of response is not all fantasy. Our thoughts and worries are usually reasonable. Can they be unreasonable? Sure. </p><p>Even simple pain affects people to different degrees. An infant screams and cries at hitting their toe, but an adult can usually act with more restraint. Someone can enjoy a cold shower, while another may regard it as a cruel and unusual punishment.</p><blockquote><p>There’s a sense of resistance to it - not accepting it, not allowing it to be there and accepting the reality of the situation. We fight with the reality of the way things are right now and so we turn the pain into suffering or we add suffering on top.</p></blockquote><p>"Fighting with the reality of the way things are right now" is the very definition of life. Only a stone does not fight. The very process of survival is to manipulate the "reality". One can, and would be wise to, accept things that one <i>cannot change</i>, but to accept everything "as it is" is supremely foolish. As a rather crude example, if you feel a pressure in your bowels, you need to find the toilet, not just accept that pressure "as it is". If you don't find a functioning toilet, you need to find a bush. Not accept the absence of a toilet "as it is". And once your bowels are emptied, you need to find a way to clean yourself, not accept the "reality of the way things are".</p><blockquote><p>The more that you resist or deny or fight or argue with the pain- which is already there;, the more suffering you experience. </p></blockquote><p>The fight with a pain is because we want to lessen it. We fight it in many ways. We try to find its cause, we try to soothe the injury, we try to find help, we try to protect ourselves from further injury, and so on. "Pain" is the nerves' response to an unusual state, not conducive to one's well-being. To just wish for the pain to go away is as childish as accepting it. The mature response is to want to lessen it and to heal it.</p><blockquote><p>That's a useful story to remember whenever you have any kind of difficult situation. It could be the difficult internal experiences - there could be a difficult emotions like sadness, or anxiety, or frustration, or anger, or it could be to do with difficult thoughts; it could be difficult sensations like literal physical pain or chronic pain. </p></blockquote><p>Consider a mother whose child has just passed away. That mother feels immense sorrow. We hope that her sorrow will lessen and heal with time. </p><p>Should she, when she first receives the news, act as a robot, and process the news merely as a new factoid?</p><p>Her sorrow is in a way sacred to her. It is the other side of her immense love for her child. Someone who tells her not to feel sad will be called insensitive or worse. The only way she can avoid that kind of sorrow is if she holds no love or affection for the child to begin with. </p><p>For some mothers, the sorrow can be overwhelming, and they may think of ending their own lives. But they rarely do. And in such cases, where the emotional reaction has veered into dangerous territory, the community tries to help. There are other mothers in the community who may have lost a child, and they know what the mother must be feeling.</p><p>Consider "difficult emotions" as first-order emotional responses to a situation. The second-order response of an adult might be: "No I cannot accept that I am sad", or it can be "Why am I sad, why am I angry," etc., or it may be "I need to accept that I am sad". It is generally therapeutic to accept the first order response but not to act unreasonably on it. If one is angry, to accept that one is angry, but not act it out by breaking things in the house. Even better, to figure out what the trigger was and whether it was reasonable to get angry and what can one do to fix the underlying situation.</p><p>"Anger" is a four-letter word on most spiritual paths. "Anger" is a strong emotional disapproval of a situation and wanting to urgently do something to re-establish an agreeable or a fair state. It may involve adrenaline and increased blood flow. Spiritualists will likely say that it is never reasonable to get angry, or sad. But if we consider anger and sadness as emotional responses to a situation (just like pain is a physical response, and thought and worry are mental responses), as an adult we will seek not to eliminate those emotions, but to act on them in fruitful ways and not in unwholesome ways.</p><p>Moreover, as I detailed in my essay on <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2010/04/aphorisms-on-suffering.html" target="_blank">Suffering</a>, affective reactions are "rough and ready" responses when a more considered solution is impractical. An angry scream at someone bullying and beating a helpless kid is likely to be effective.</p><p>Similarly, on witnessing a poor woman being robbed of her savings by an unscrupulous criminal, or learning of how your tax dollars were diverted into the coffers of the corrupt, the emotion of anger is reasonable. Hopefully, that anger translates into a useful course of action and not in a reckless one.</p><p>A man without emotional responses like sadness or anger, is likely also without affection for another human being, and lacking the instincts for justice and fairness.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-25811654902136708842023-02-08T23:01:00.003+05:302023-02-09T00:29:35.792+05:30Wisdom and Suffering<p> After reading an old post about <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2018/08/signs-of-inner-growth.html" target="_blank">"Signs of Inner Growth"</a>, a friend asked:</p><p></p><blockquote><p>I noticed that you did not mention "less suffering" as an outcome of increased wisdom. I am curious if it is because:</p><p>a. This is obvious to the extent of being tautological. </p><p>b. Not a worthy goal to pursue</p><p>c. Wisdom is independent of reducing suffering</p><p>d. None of the above</p></blockquote><p>It is a good question, and worthy of a nuanced response.</p><p>I have written earlier about <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2010/04/aphorisms-on-suffering.html" target="_blank">suffering</a> (and I recommend the reader go through that essay first), but let me address this pointed question here.</p><p>Suffering is essentially the recognition and response to a disagreeable state of affairs. One's response to a disagreeable state can be a mix of physiological, intellectual or emotional/affective distress. As long as one is alive, there will always be such states of affairs.</p><p>The state of affairs may pertain to a narrow realm: to one's health, financial security, or one's family. Or it may be about a wider realm: about the poor, about the exploited orphans, and in general about the state of the world.</p><p>One's response is also not set in stone, and one can train oneself to be stronger (physically, intellectually and emotionally). A physically stronger person will be able to endure a long walk while the same walk will cause distress in another. An intellectual quandary or uncertainty (how to save taxes, how to prepare for retirement, how to shield one's children from unwholesome influences) can be distressing to someone without the inner or outer tools to resolve it. And of course, there are degrees of emotional health. One can be a reactive, short-tempered, angry individual, or one can be patient and empathetic.</p><p>Many forms of trainings are available to become stronger physically, intellectually or emotionally.</p><p>As one expands one's intellectual and emotional horizons, it is quite possible, nay, almost certain, that one realizes that one suffers more than before. One may become more aware of others' suffering, one may realize alarming facts which are unknown to many, one may become more acutely conscious of the need to do something, one may form new goals which hold no charm for others. "Ignorance is bliss" is indeed true in many ways.</p><p>A fit individual may decide to climb the north face of K2 and die doing so.</p><p>An intellectually advanced man may spend years and decades and die looking for a solution to whether P=NP.</p><p>An emotionally advanced individual may leave a well-paying job and spend years creating a new kind of painting or sculpture (as was depicted in Maugham's "Of Moon and Sixpence").</p><p>You may say that the artist suffered in a 9-5 job, and so his leaving his job is not really a sacrifice, that it is a reduction of his suffering. That will be a simplistic reading of such a situation. The artist is not looking to reduce his suffering, he is willing to suffer for something that is <i>meaningful</i> to him. </p><p>Consider Buddha's leaving of his family. Did that cause new kinds of suffering? Was the Buddha assured of his goal when he left his palace? Did he carefully weigh which path was less prone to future suffering, for himself or for his family, or for humanity? </p><p>Or did he follow his instinct, and his prodigious passion, to do something that he felt was impossible in his palace.</p><p>There are many such Buddhas around us. They sacrifice the popular and easy pleasures for the rare and long-winded ones.</p><p>To want to suffer less is natural, but it is not the goal of human life, as we observe humanity. The quickest and most effective way to end suffering is to commit suicide, but we know that people live, and want to live. They endure pain and suffering for achieving something that is meaningful to them. A mother faces immense risk and pain to give birth to a child and to care for it, but the love for one's child (the bringer of suffering) is almost universal. An inventor or an entrepreneur plunges himself into uncertainty and possible ridicule because of his ambition.</p><p>To avoid extreme suffering is essential to human growth, and a distinction has already been made between "distress" (harmful stress), and "eustress" (beneficial stress).</p><p>If you find yourself handicapped by your distress, by all means reduce it. And use wholesome tools to do so (rather than tools which harm you in other ways). And then move forward. The goal is not to be free of distress. That is just the beginning.</p><p>And similarly, it is noble and worthwhile to want to reduce others' distress so that they may also pursue their meaningful goals.</p><p>The goal is not merely to have a shiny, smoothly-running car. That is just a prerequisite for your journey. </p><p>The car is washed and serviced. Where should you go? There is no one answer. The world is wide-open for you.</p><p>Similarly, once your mind is free from debilitating distress, that's when you can truly begin to evolve and achieve.</p><p>So what is the relationship between wisdom and suffering? Wisdom is to understand things more deeply, and therefore, a wise man understands his suffering because he understands himself. He may accept a disease, or being alone, or being poor, or the corruption in politics, in ways which seem inexplicable to others.</p><p>He could be immune to certain kinds of suffering, but he may choose other, new kinds of suffering in furtherance of goals that his wisdom has now revealed to him. </p><p></p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-82400713867190847122022-03-30T18:58:00.003+05:302022-03-30T19:09:37.380+05:30The Home and The Heart, full text<p>Those interested in reading or sharing this series can download it as a single <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/17InJMUcajGJhf4-BsXVg1L7Wzcheo2K5/view?usp=sharing">PDF document</a>.</p><p>I am grateful for the many letters and notes and messages that you have sent after reading this series. Thank you.</p><p>Those who wish to read it online, here is the table of contents in order:</p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-i.html" target="_blank">The Last Supper</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-ii.html" target="_blank">The House of Usher</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-iii.html" target="_blank">The Five Words</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-iv.html" target="_blank">The Compliment</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-v.html" target="_blank">The Pain of Love</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-vi.html" target="_blank">The Way Home</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-vii.html" target="_blank">The Weightless Weight</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-part-viii.html" target="_blank">A Few Thousand Words</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-chapter-ix.html" target="_blank">Post Tenebras, Lux</a></li><li><a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-home-and-heart-postscript.html" target="_blank">Postscript</a></li></ol><p></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-74170286920553379022022-03-28T21:23:00.053+05:302022-03-30T19:08:54.026+05:30The Home and The Heart, PostscriptI trust I have not wasted breath:<br />I think we are not wholly brain,<br />Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,<br />Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;<br /><br />Not only cunning casts in clay:<br />Let Science prove we are, and then<br />What matters Science unto men,<br />At least to me? I would not stay.<br /><br />Let him, the wiser man who springs<br />Hereafter, up from childhood shape<br />His action like the greater ape,<br />But I was born to other things.<p>I had not intended to write this series. But over time, I realized that the pain of that period still lingered in me. I felt responsible for all that had happened. To see a loved one go through so much pain and suffering is not easy, especially if that pain and suffering is a result of decisions that were made. She trusted me to make those decisions, and I made them with the utmost care. I read every medical journal that talked about valve thrombosis, the various approaches to treating it, the risks of thrombolysis versus re-do valve surgery, the mechanics of heart bypass, the mechanism and aftermath of embolic strokes, and so on. I asked innumerable questions to her doctors. I got second opinions. I read of thrombolytic agents and which ones to use and what dosage was to be applied.</p><p>But in the end, our hand was forced by her deteriorating condition and by the many doctors who told us there was no other way but to operate on her.</p><p>Before giving our consent to heart surgery, I had asked her a question. I had asked her if I was in a similar situation, if my heart had failed, and all the doctors were telling us that surgery was my only option, would she have tried to persuade an unwilling me to go through with it? To my continued distress to this day, she had said that she, gentle and loving as she is, would have not.</p><p>Perhaps she did not realize the gravity of her situation. But the fact remains that I, advised by the doctors, made her agree to the re-do surgery.</p><p>We, or rather I, made the decision to go in. I was the one who signed the consent form, acknowledging that I understood the risks. I live with that decision, and its aftermath.</p><p>Though it is not part of the standard protocol, I wish I had asked the hospital to do a brain scan on her during the 40 hours that she was unconscious after her heart surgery. I wish I knew that there was major risk of a vascular accident during or after her surgery and I wish we had caught the stroke in time. In the aftermath, I asked the attending surgeons and doctors to revise their protocol to include this check, but I do not know if anything will come of my recommendation.</p><p>But I was not, and am not, a medical professional. I trusted the hospital and the doctors and the medical journals. But my wife - she only trusted me. I cherish this trust, but I also have to live with the responsibility of this trust.</p><p>If I was an illiterate man who had little idea of pressure gradients in the heart, I would have taken the relatively easier path of just accepting the doctors' decisions. I would not have made them "my" decisions. I would have obeyed the experts and accepted every procedure, every complication, fatalistically. But I was born to know, and to question, and so I also have to live with the limits of my knowledge and with the limited knowledge of the experts. They, and I, tried to do their best, but it was not good enough.</p><p>The difference is: the doctors went home and attended to other patients the next day. My wife's post-surgical complications would be a statistic in their long career. But for my wife, and for me, our life was transformed in those few days. We, as all patients, have to <i>live </i>the rest of our lives with the consequences, while for the doctors it is, hopefully, a <i>learning</i>.</p><p>It was not their fault. I believe they tried their very best. I hold no bitterness toward them.</p><p>This pain in me is mine own. It is irrational, but I do not deny it.</p><p>It is not unlike the pain of a mother who kissed and goaded her unwilling child into the school bus, and the child later bled to his death in a bus accident. She was hardly "responsible". She did everything out of immense love and with the very best of intentions. But if you are at all human, you will understand her guilt.</p><p>To heal the pain of that decision of mine, and the immense suffering for her that followed, this series is an attempt at what I can only term as Penance. It is my cross to bear, and through my writing, I hope to, perhaps, forgive myself.</p><p>The second reason is to give anybody who reads this series a message of hope and love. To give the reader a sense of home and of being away from it, and what it means to one's heart. To communicate the power of love. To tell the reader that it is possible to transcend tragedy and darkness. It may not always be possible, and every story is different, but our story ends as a beginning. We were fortunate, and blessed, to have come through, and I wanted to share this tale of overcoming.</p><p>Lastly, this series is a tribute to my wife, and to the love in her heart. She is a marvelous woman: simple, loving and truthful. She has not seen much of the world, and perhaps because of that, she is innocent in a way that is rare and remarkable.</p><p>She will perhaps never want to, or be able to, write her story in the way I have done. She may never read it. It will be too traumatic for her to recall those times in this detail. But her story needed to be told, I feel. She is of this earth, an unknown woman, but this story of her struggle needed to be better known. It is my homage to her resilience, her patience, and to her fortitude.</p><p>I thought I knew much. But she has taught me much more.</p><p>...</p><p>Through this, I remain grateful to our two friends, and our siblings, especially my younger brother, who all shall remain unnamed, and who gave us their time, their energy and their affection. To her parents, and to mine, who worried for us and sent her their prayers. And to our well-wishers, who remained concerned for our well-being.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-61352884808468507192022-03-28T16:01:00.051+05:302023-02-06T23:45:58.579+05:30The Home and The Heart, part IX<p>Chapter IX</p><p><b>Post Tenebras, Lux</b><br /><br />I am reborn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I have come through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">When I was born the first time, the first child, the daughter, I was named after the full moon. And today, as then, I am bathed in light.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From the bottomless labyrinth of the deepest despair, I
have risen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have crept and I
have crawled and I have climbed, and climbed till I could breathe no more, and
I see the sun now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was that time, and a dreadful time it was, when I did not even dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in the darkest valley one could scarce imagine, and I was all alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
did not know how I had fallen, and how I would rise again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had broken my back and my ribs, and they had put daggers into me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had bled in
cascades to within a whisper of death.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was parched and not a drop of water did I find.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My tongue and my lips had become heavy with salt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hear nothing but strange sounds of
creatures I had never seen or known of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In that dreamless dark night, I floated endlessly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to hold on to something, anything, that
could bear my mass, but there was nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I felt weightless, emotionless, thoughtless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That world was empty, and endless, and without relief.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvg6Ld7u5ue1HZTDrAEGZjDhFPBFOOUSXCqNsGD8cHVk7c4fvxgzoPznlH6UHYmKJ3nGrhJyK4fHiPNnBzuEB5XlupSR7GdKP4Yz02JLP_xQbVYFc0C0J384GOLkydgNOFnAt2BjL7UUk9MaTLd1lF27oz-0-VwtvRhGeyFBFotJ7WbeSIg/s2746/cherry-laithang-NmPpz1jA_JE-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1819" data-original-width="2746" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyvg6Ld7u5ue1HZTDrAEGZjDhFPBFOOUSXCqNsGD8cHVk7c4fvxgzoPznlH6UHYmKJ3nGrhJyK4fHiPNnBzuEB5XlupSR7GdKP4Yz02JLP_xQbVYFc0C0J384GOLkydgNOFnAt2BjL7UUk9MaTLd1lF27oz-0-VwtvRhGeyFBFotJ7WbeSIg/w640-h424/cherry-laithang-NmPpz1jA_JE-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">But the faint embers of my life had not totally extinguished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They pulsed with the little drops of blood
that were left in my broken frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
heart was beating, ever so feebly, with little to flow in my veins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With only one hand, my left, I tried to pour
the elixir of hope on those embers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
there was no hope left in me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As night flowed into endless night, I saw, or did I
dream? a distant light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A faint light it
was, but it was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That soothing
light made the infinite darkness seem less frightful. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That light was not unfamiliar, but I did not recognize it
fully then.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Was this the light that I had seen eons ago?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its memory seemed buried in a far corner of
my being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was this the light around
which I had circled one day? It was that, wasn’t it?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was tired beyond my limits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to just sleep forever, but that
light!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That light danced and that light
came closer and caressed my shattered limbs. As I slipped into slumber, toward eternal sleep, that light gently shook me again into wakefulness.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That light became my hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If there was this light, this darkness surely was not endless, it had
its end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not infinite, as it had
seemed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I, with effortless effort, rose from my tired slumber, the
light entered me and lit me from within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I held it, or did it hold me I wonder. I would not let it go now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I treasured it, nourished it, and made it my most precious friend.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My fears and pains were there still, but that radiance made them bearable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I breathed in the air
around me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that light in me, the
air was no longer a stranger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could
not speak, nor was there another soul to hear my silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that light within my being told me that I
was not alone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It told me that I had many dreams to dream, that I had many
mountains yet to see, that many swans and seagulls were waiting for me in their oceans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I was again
going to kiss that red sparrow in my orchid that used to prance near my feet. That what was
broken could be made whole again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">But I
had to follow the light and not get lost again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I let that light be my guide, it gave me strength and hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought my journey toward the sun was going
to be eternal, but the light whispered to me that it wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That only if I did not give up, only if I
kept walking through my despair, I would find that my despair was not my
master.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I would overcome it.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And through many strange mazes and tunnels and doorways did I pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I kept on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Resolute, hopeful, fearful, I kept on.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I emerged into the light of the sun and fulfilled my destiny,
I realized, with bliss, what that inner light was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The light of the sun was much grander, and astonishing to behold, but my
own light inside of me was its part.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The light of the sun and the light within me had become one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They merged, and showed me that I was that light.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That light was love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because I had found and cherished love in my heart, I was able
to see love beyond me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that love,
within and without, was me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I had become love. I was love. I am love. </p><p class="MsoNormal">My glow, which isn't only mine anymore, is the absolute utter and pure benediction of life.<br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">My journey from darkness to light doesn't end here, as my journey in light has just begun. The mountains and the oceans await me. As it once was, so it shall be again, that I shall be true to my name, and I shall take my ancient place with the stars.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I stretch my arms and my love expands to all that is visible and invisible. I was adrift, and now I am home. And my home and my heart are one.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I bless all those who are lost, and those who are on their journey. May all those who drift into darkness find their light again. May their hearts be home.</p>ॐ असतोमा सद्गमय । Lead us from the unreal to the real<br />तमसोमा ज्योतिर्गमय । Lead us from darkness to light<br />मृत्योर्मामृतं गमय ।। Lead us from death to deathlessness<br />ॐ शान्ति शान्ति शान्तिः ।। May there be peace in all<div><br /></div><div>The End</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-53704971219793645112022-03-27T20:40:00.002+05:302022-03-28T20:11:35.795+05:30The Home and The Heart, part VIIIWe shall not cease from exploration<br />And the end of all our exploring<br />Will be to arrive where we started<br />And know the place for the first time.<br /><br />Chapter 8<p><b>A Few Thousand Words</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OeXUeNnHzLck_eGmwIWTuB6f8N0QU3lxMsFr-dkvDzhwRdSeDu7xRfBlqxGclmv0zpvJ7IUS48o1KoLFnL8QFqGMDA6eBvlsvkDqeeQqK8Gi5g7s2wGj-EmXMmG_XLxrUXJLVTOstz8am9KBzEmssYRKo8_ybwczyh4-ZgIQPqOMz2nsng/s2048/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.58.45%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OeXUeNnHzLck_eGmwIWTuB6f8N0QU3lxMsFr-dkvDzhwRdSeDu7xRfBlqxGclmv0zpvJ7IUS48o1KoLFnL8QFqGMDA6eBvlsvkDqeeQqK8Gi5g7s2wGj-EmXMmG_XLxrUXJLVTOstz8am9KBzEmssYRKo8_ybwczyh4-ZgIQPqOMz2nsng/w478-h640/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.58.45%20AM.jpeg" width="478" /></a><br />Before the Calamity</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmwdh5Y1Qn-_KF-nDwI6nCZnZF1efBL5ApJI1n-odWvaAVBE4m9PfEbOUmHflr4tG3hfFjU88ZEKo8690QmOsY79Z724Iq3mSAd1MVZTYuVEm_ozlYj-g-ma2ru3P2aS01-epgoCGJONUWe4zPPXJ_0QgYv1yeBE3v0Un8E8t6-0mNodTOQ/s961/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.52.32%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="719" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmwdh5Y1Qn-_KF-nDwI6nCZnZF1efBL5ApJI1n-odWvaAVBE4m9PfEbOUmHflr4tG3hfFjU88ZEKo8690QmOsY79Z724Iq3mSAd1MVZTYuVEm_ozlYj-g-ma2ru3P2aS01-epgoCGJONUWe4zPPXJ_0QgYv1yeBE3v0Un8E8t6-0mNodTOQ/w478-h640/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.52.32%20AM.jpeg" title="Life Support" width="478" /></a><br />On the brink</div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYdGV3gb-MjECvqldvw8TBfLwNZ3FVy1d8LQjETvBR4GSzNQ3B0r8qP1RoTeDIfAPred829BoqJZFgy5EBKaSCBVekKzmsZuVh-fuLd7wD_g8I-eHXZtwbcCWgZ-BBSNBHbrtQH0tIUOtf9PS-hUpn9iRdA3XueBVUy_H7ioWs0CVhvrJQw/s961/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.52.58%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="432" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYdGV3gb-MjECvqldvw8TBfLwNZ3FVy1d8LQjETvBR4GSzNQ3B0r8qP1RoTeDIfAPred829BoqJZFgy5EBKaSCBVekKzmsZuVh-fuLd7wD_g8I-eHXZtwbcCWgZ-BBSNBHbrtQH0tIUOtf9PS-hUpn9iRdA3XueBVUy_H7ioWs0CVhvrJQw/w288-h640/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.52.58%20AM.jpeg" width="288" /></a><br />In Darkness</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhNnzILF_cFq40WOUH89c3WTWLnvl5_omDXF_XmYOL-Zea-4-vzoUReWIUUnszWv9G9ZtqFHqaYXu2nIDZpc6bi5uxVWpY1S3-tvBDcJCiMfIRk8eGfXzPWseEFnra9LSkIv3XYbknqobhv3Sk1Xta0_M4XQwnMOzRdiZpNaEo-6uB7hKAQ/s1285/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.55.16%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="1285" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnhNnzILF_cFq40WOUH89c3WTWLnvl5_omDXF_XmYOL-Zea-4-vzoUReWIUUnszWv9G9ZtqFHqaYXu2nIDZpc6bi5uxVWpY1S3-tvBDcJCiMfIRk8eGfXzPWseEFnra9LSkIv3XYbknqobhv3Sk1Xta0_M4XQwnMOzRdiZpNaEo-6uB7hKAQ/w640-h478/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.55.16%20AM.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The First Sleep at Home</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPx6kAQ4ByzluOj5ky3BeFsCitv3febOCGl4hMzM0_GfqayVao1FretYQB1QeWGxo6U3XcITOvnWwNn0dha4v4VeO1a_m8ZKKPQky1__baLnOFlMtdHmElj9sLXqneO4FfSFX5NL3ZUrHgLk4c8mkjr-U_TTFBZj_f36qEXeo1sjAZLbIb7Q/s2048/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.57.33%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1532" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPx6kAQ4ByzluOj5ky3BeFsCitv3febOCGl4hMzM0_GfqayVao1FretYQB1QeWGxo6U3XcITOvnWwNn0dha4v4VeO1a_m8ZKKPQky1__baLnOFlMtdHmElj9sLXqneO4FfSFX5NL3ZUrHgLk4c8mkjr-U_TTFBZj_f36qEXeo1sjAZLbIb7Q/w478-h640/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%207.57.33%20AM.jpeg" width="478" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">After the Haircut</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPv7dWULeJrEamSQI39_4MVb0fQquf4gFAh11xRCFKgvardbDJ3DaSKKd3siLIuZki0QWMKFeim9AhlfLf37RZVl7Z1aOuY3kEkGP4nbtoQPiVOKAIdTXugaZXf_MokQ8hoxnvnFVqUce0WIO8fyUmBvJ9sbPnGSV9ge1F2f89dMnNpRvDQ/s1600/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%208.00.00%20AM.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1197" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPv7dWULeJrEamSQI39_4MVb0fQquf4gFAh11xRCFKgvardbDJ3DaSKKd3siLIuZki0QWMKFeim9AhlfLf37RZVl7Z1aOuY3kEkGP4nbtoQPiVOKAIdTXugaZXf_MokQ8hoxnvnFVqUce0WIO8fyUmBvJ9sbPnGSV9ge1F2f89dMnNpRvDQ/w478-h640/WhatsApp%20Image%202022-03-27%20at%208.00.00%20AM.jpeg" width="478" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And, A few Months Later</div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><i>(to be concluded)</i></p><p><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-6133471774361904102022-03-27T01:09:00.018+05:302022-03-28T20:11:29.731+05:30The Home and The Heart, part VII<p>I know that this was Life,—the track<br />Whereon with equal feet we fared;<br />And then, as now, the day prepared<br />The daily burden for the back.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But this it was that made me move<br />
As light as carrier-birds in air;<br />
I loved the weight I had to bear,<br />
Because it needed help of Love:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chapter 7<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Weightless Weight<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
extraordinarily weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had lost
fifteen pounds during that banishment away from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her body was tattooed with innumerable needle
pricks and internal bleeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her hair were in shambles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she was at peace. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As she entered her home, she breathed in the long-desired, long-awaited air of her past, and absorbed the love and belonging
that was all hers. Her soul was soothed, and her restlessness went away as she took step after step inside her house. She looked around with tired eyes, and the sight of every little familiar thing gave her nourishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> That chair! That towel! That mirror! </span>She became languorous, and
lay down in <i>her</i> bed and went to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could not have enough of looking at her sleeping peacefully in her own room, the room that was built of affection and understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had waited for this day for so long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her own pillow, her blanket that smelled of love and jasmine, offered her the embrace of her own world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I felt as if we had just married, and this was my bride coming to her conjugal home.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the coming weeks and months, I knew that we both had to climb a steep mountain, whose peak we could
not yet see from here below.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without saying anything, we were joined in our
resolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were together now, and our
love would see us through to the other side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Together, we would climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Holding
hands, walking shoulder to shoulder, we would climb. We would get tired, and we would catch our breath, rest for an afternoon, and with renewed resolve, we would climb.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was an immense vindication of our decision to come back
home "against medical advice" that she healed as if miraculously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She started walking within a few days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She never needed a cane, what to speak of needing a wheelchair. Her right arm, though very weak, was moving again. </span>Though I had brought a supply of thick liquids for her, she never had a
need for those.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She started having
normal liquids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In tiny gulps, ever so
slowly, but she tasted water and milk and tea and coffee again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would
cough, and learn to swallow properly, and try again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she started chewing again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was utterly remarkable. And immensely fulfilling for both of us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I bathed her, and fed her, and held her as she tried to walk, and made her again see the
trees, the rivers, the birds, the sun, the moon and the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nature
took over, and she slowly regained her weight and her strength.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to engage some therapists, but it was
hard to find a good one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by necessity and by desire, I ended up as her therapist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made her do little
exercises every day, and fed her milk shakes, smoothies, eggs, porridge, and bowls
of soup.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She started smiling again, and every little victory over her
condition gladdened her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
headaches were now a thing of the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was on her way to becoming herself again.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We never spoke about the hospitals and of our trials there.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her eyes would well up when she saw her wedding bangles, or an ornate dress, or the
photos from our journeys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as I held
her in my arms, her tears would stop, and she would be at peace again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A day after her homecoming, I took her to a hair salon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hairdresser looked at her hair and
stepped back in horror when I told her we needed to cut them short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would not do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sacrilege, she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could not bear to cut such long hair and
have them fall on the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had taken years and
decades for those long hair to be, and it seemed so ruthless to put scissors to
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I convinced her that there was
no other way, that the hair were matted beyond redemption, and she with immense gentleness slowly cut them short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wife did not flinch during that session,
and when afterward she looked at herself in the mirror, she looked almost
fashionably modern.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To climb a mountain is difficult only if one does not want
to climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To a mountaineer, or to one on a pilgrimage, every step
of the ascent is sacred, and fulfilling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The legs may get tired, but one can rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strength comes only partly from the
muscle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The real strength is in the
heart.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>(to be continued)</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-43542484319469691982022-03-26T18:51:00.050+05:302022-03-30T18:51:25.995+05:30The Home and The Heart, part VI<p>तुम जो सोचो वो तुम जानो हम तो अपनी कहते हैं<br />देर न करना घर जाने में वरना घर खो जायेंगे</p><p>You are wise perhaps, but I will speak my own truth<br />Do not be late in coming, or your home will be no more.</p><p>किन राहों से दूर है मंज़िल कौन सा रस्ता आसाँ है<br />हम जब थक कर रुक जायेंगे औरों को समझायेंगे</p><p>Which paths lead nowhere, and which paths lead to home<br />Weary from our own journey, we shall teach others.</p><p>Chapter 6</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Way Home</b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Every day was a day of hope for her, that today at last I
would take her home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But every day, her
hopes were dashed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hospital was
ready to send her away but not to home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead, they insisted, and I reluctantly agreed, that she should go to another kind
of hospital, where she could undergo intensive therapy.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They scheduled her departure on a Saturday, and there were
some delays in the paperwork.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
possible that she had to stay for another few days. I would not, could not, accept that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that she was at the end of her tether,
and she would not, could not, bear me again telling her that she could not
leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would crush her spirit,
perhaps irrevocably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her fragile mind,
she now had a hazy idea that it was now only a matter of another day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On Thursday, and on Friday, she said: “Today
is the day, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are going to go,
right?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I made dozens of calls, to her insurance, to the hospitals,
to her case manager, to her attendants, and made the paperwork move
through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was ready, but the
hospital was not able to arrange an ambulance for her to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I would not let her stay in that building
for another day, even if that meant I had to carry her in my arms.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I carried
her, and had her sit in our car, and she looked at the outside world with
surprise as we drove to the rehabilitation facility.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her brain swelling had receded, but there were strange
headaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was frightened at what
must have been extremely unpleasant sensations as her brain tried to rewire
itself.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The rehabilitation center was a little more peaceful than
the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had her first bath in
over a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She finally was able to
wear her own clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But durations and
times were not easy for her to understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was left despondent as I parted from her every evening.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The emotions of being confined to hospital rooms, with
little understanding of the reasons of that confinement, were building up in
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had left one hospital for
another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where was her home?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would she ever leave these rooms with the
nurses and the doctors and the therapists and the unpalatable food?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would her headaches ever end?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would her husband ever be with her for the night?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The cover of clouds had shifted, but a ferocious tempest was
building up on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Occasionally,
and out of nowhere, there were downpours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh look, there was a glimmer of the sun, but
the swirling clouds soon eclipsed it again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Without warning, the winds howled and then died down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were distant flashes of lightning, and
the birds who were protecting their nests trembled at every sound of thunder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would they survive the storm?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was a Saturday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like any other day, I drove to the rehab hospital to be with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I entered the room, she was lying on her
side, with what seemed like a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
it was not a smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her face was tense
with emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been waiting for
me for what was to her an eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had
waited and waited, and hours had passed, and days had passed, and years had
passed, and I had not come.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She saw me in front of her - and exploded without warning. That entire hospital was filled
with a feeble woman’s screams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would
not stay there for another moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She would crawl, if she could not walk. Her bed had guardrails, but she was ready to jump over them. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">She
had been away from her home, and untold and unintelligible brutalities and indignities had been
heaped on her during this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who were
all these people who had ravaged her body?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Why was she, the apple of her father's eye, allowed to be naked and needled in front of strange men? </span>What had they done to her?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> What had happened? </span>Where
was she?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Why had she, the gentle flower, been plucked and plucked till nary a petal remained? </span>Was there anyone else left in
the world?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother and her father, who had cared for her when she was an infant - and she was now again an infant - were millions of miles away. Her brother and her sister were continents away. Was it her destiny to spend night after lonely night in these impersonal rooms,
in strange beds, looking at the walls?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">She did not say any of these things. She just screamed till her breath failed her. But I knew.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The light inside of her was blazing as it rejected the confines of her cage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The cruel hospital administrator wanted to sedate her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I asked him what, then, would he do when
the sedation wore off, he replied nonchalantly: “We will continue the dose every twelve
hours.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I would not, not in a thousand years, allow my beloved to be
put to sleep again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had risen from
the cold, dark grave. No one had the right to violate her dignity in this way, or to subdue her
will to be free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They had saved her life perhaps, but they had also savaged her. She had been tortured enough. </span>She would not, not if I was there, have sedatives injected into her against her will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She was feeble, and she was incoherent, but she was full of light. She would not go into darkness again.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I left the room momentarily to speak to someone, the nurses tried to
inject her with something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pushed
them away, saying words that still echo in my mind: “My husband will come and save
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wait and see.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "My husband." Her husband, who had taken the vows to protect her from harm. Who she trusted to be right, her knight. And who she depended on to care for her "in sickness and in health, until death do us part". Who else was for her, then and there, what was now her entire world? </span>At that moment, I knew. I would not, could not, let her down. She would never regain her faith in her love if I came in but betrayed her, and allowed them to have their way. That would have pushed her into a darkness worse than death.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I would not collaborate in extinguishing that blaze of life.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I realized that if I was not present that day, they would have sedated her, plunging her into depression, and seeing her lack of improvement, eventually refer her to a permanent facility for stroke victims. And there she would remain, under sedation, under anti-depressants, on a wheelchair, away from all that was dear to her.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I put her clothes in a plastic bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I g</span>athered her belongings, including the useless combs and hairbrushes. I was made to sign a paper
which stated the hospital was not responsible for her anymore, as I was taking her
away “against medical advice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not hesitate, not for one moment, to sign that woeful document.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would not stay in such a place where her
humanity was to be treated with Alprazolam.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I did not know what we would do, and how we would manage on
our own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I knew that was the right
thing to do even if, once again, I had to carry her in my arms. In my heart, I told her: "I will make you whole, my love. I promise you. Let us go." She could not walk, nor eat, nor express herself. But I would make that happen, I promised her in silence. By all that was holy and good, I would make the flower that she was, bloom again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In another hour, that tattered tender flower, which had been
blown around by the thunderstorm and the winds into fearsome strange lands of wolves and snakes, of volcanos and deep gorges, found itself again in its familiar orchid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where
the soil, the flowers, the trees, the very air, was its own.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The storm had passed. There was a stillness and a fragrance of grace.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was home.</p><p class="MsoNormal">She did not know then, or now. But this song was written for her.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/21Qg2wYRmRc" width="320" youtube-src-id="21Qg2wYRmRc"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>(to be continued)</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-58319283456697894782022-03-26T03:08:00.016+05:302022-03-28T20:11:06.441+05:30The Home and The Heart, part V<p>Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze<br />Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer<br />Was as the whisper of an air<br />To breathe thee over lonely seas.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For I in spirit saw thee move<br />
Thro' circles of the bounding sky,<br />
Week after week: the days go by:<br />
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chapter 5</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Pain of Love</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was not that she wanted me to stop coming to see her, but
she wanted me never to abandon her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
God was with her, so was I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the
hospital forbade us from being together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I, every day, walked through the hallway of the CVICU and approached
her room, I stopped for a moment to steel myself at what might await me, and
her, that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would this be a day of
darkness, or of light?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would there be agonized
moans, or would there be the sounds of a distant flute?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After weeks of delay, she finally was operated again, and
given a pacemaker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now, she was
slowly moving her right leg and foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her feeding tube remained in place, but the therapists had tried to make
her swallow spoonful of thick liquids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was trying hard to come back to light, as death and darkness had
loosened their grip on her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would
spend my days in learning, doing, all that I could to scatter the clouds still over
her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It had almost been a month that she had been admitted to the
hospital, and she had now gradually started speaking simple words again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked hard on her, but with loving
gentleness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Making her count from one to
ten, asking her to recite the days of the week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She managed sometimes, and we celebrated those little but momentous
victories.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A nurse painted her nails, and I could not admire the nurse
more for her gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The speech
therapist, a wispy woman from West Virginia, was kind and understanding, and we
looked forward to her visits, as there was an added pleasure when she worked
with my wife.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She sometimes brought little bits of jam and ice-cream to
try and see if my wife could swallow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After a month of not having had anything palatable, one day the
therapist asked my wife to try a bit of orange sorbet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the joy on my wife’s face as she
nodded her head from side to side, expressing her pleasure at the sugary ice
mixture on her tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The exclamation “Delicious!”
was on her face, as she found herself unable to utter words of gratitude.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The speech therapist was determined to see her get better,
and I remain eternally grateful to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
wife was to go through a real-time X-ray to determine if her swallowing was
acceptable, or if food was entering her airway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This speech therapist, Maggie, wanted to oversee this whole exercise,
and we of course wanted it to complete successfully.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But it would be many days before that study could be scheduled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And day after day, waiting in loneliness and
disability was taking a heavy psychological toll on my wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And one day, as I was sitting by the
bed-side, a hospital administrator came and told us that they had done the
study on my wife, and unfortunately my wife was not able to swallow, and that
soon they would be making a hole in her stomach and feeding her from there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was crestfallen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This setback was crushing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I explained this news to her, making it seem
a very temporary inconvenience, and she nodded in fake understanding. She did not deny that she had been taken for the X-ray without me. She had no idea what I was saying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">An hour later, the same administrator returned to the room
and apologized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said he had made a
mistake and it was another patient who had failed, and my wife’s evaluation was
still to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I experienced a mixture
of happiness and anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was happy that
there was a mistake, but I was angry that there was a mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I was so sorry about the woman who had failed the study, but i</span>t was an unjust and sloppy insult to my wife
who, days ago, in a moment of defiance and resolution, had proclaimed to her mother
on speakerphone: “You shall see, I will overcome this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will come and see you when I am well again.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was taken down for the swallow evaluation a few days
later, and I watched the X-ray screens as she was fed a little water, or a
little oatmeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could not chew, and she
could not drink plain water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she
could swallow alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did overcome
that hill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeding tube was removed,
and bland, thick pastes of food were now to be brought to her three times a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She ate almost nothing of those
pastes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started making some better tasting
semi-liquid meals at home and brought them for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those tastes reminded her of home, and she
ate a little from those plastic cups.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As the time came closer for her to be discharged from the
CVICU, to another section of the hospital, I thought of ways to kindle her
memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I showed her old photos, and
played old, familiar songs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of those songs was especially dear to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It starts with the words: “The pain of love
is sweet, oh so exquisite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And this beautiful
pain nourishes these two hearts.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HveERdghRD4" width="320" youtube-src-id="HveERdghRD4"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal">I remember the evening when she started slowly humming these
words as I played that song. Did my love
nourish her heart? I have no doubt.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sun was setting beyond the greyed window, but the light
inside her was getting stronger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
flame, deep inside her being, had stopped flickering, and was a steady glow
now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She wanted me to take her home, but it was impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would ask me again and again, not
understanding why she was still in this prison.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Was she not well?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had
happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why could she not move her
arm, or eat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not explain to her,
given her impoverished comprehension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
still was very, very fragile, and was connected to wires and IV lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made her sit in a chair some days, and she
felt a deep unease and would want to lie down again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unable to verbalize her desire to go back to
bed, she tried getting up from the chair herself, and fell down and stuck her
head on the tiled floor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The doctors came rushing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They feared that her brain might start hemorrhaging again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the steady glow inside her did not
flicker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The CT scan did not show any
new bleeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her inner light was pale and still feeble, and cast many shadows, but it was steady.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The gods were now with her. Her prayers had been answered. The fragments of that old
song, for at least some moments of her agonizing day, day after day, in that vast alienating building, were on her dry tongue and on her dry, parched lips.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>(to be continued)</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-47955092664800592922022-03-25T21:48:00.038+05:302022-03-30T10:15:53.279+05:30The Home and The Heart, part IV<p>“The strength and the beauty of a tender leaf is its
vulnerability to destruction. Like a blade of grass that comes up through the
pavement, it has the power that can withstand casual death.”</p><p>Chapter 4</p><p><b>The Compliment</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We had once been to Africa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As we were waiting to board a flight from Addis Ababa, a middle-aged
woman next to my wife told her: “What beautiful long hair you have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These are priceless.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the CVICU bed, as that oft-complimented woman struggled to breathe, and as
her brain swelling showed as yet no sign of abating, her very same beautiful
long hair, unwashed for many weeks had irreversibly matted and tangled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They had become impossible to handle</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurses would try, and fail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted to save her hair, as they could
do nothing to save her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctors were
in charge of her ebbing life, but the nurses, in their simple kindness, were alarmed about
her hair.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The days passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Slowly the drugs being pumped into her were dialed down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was stabilizing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had started murmuring and had nodded when
I told her that it was me, her husband and lover who was holding her hand.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Often, she would take my hand and place it against her left
cheek, and close her eyes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was unaware of what had transpired, and of what was
happening to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could not understand
the doctors, nor make sense of what the nurses asked her. She probably remembered that she had been wheeled into a large room and that strange tall men had put needles into her and one of them had wiped her chest and sternum in preparation for something brutal, and after that it was all dark for her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her face had darkened considerably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She had become a pale shadow of her glowing self that attracted glances and compliments in malls and in gyms and in airports. </span>And as therapist after therapist visited her,
she was found unable to speak or stand or to drink a drop of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there were some rays of light through the clouds now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was now breathing on her own, and her
heart, massively traumatized, was beating feebly but regularly, assisted by the
pacemaker.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The days passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The swelling
of her brain was not worsening. She had started mumbling a few words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But often uttered something which was
completely oblique to what I believed and knew she meant to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I understood many of her expressions, but the nurses had given up on
communicating with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurses were
trying hard, but they had to attend to many patients, and I was her nurse most
of the time when I was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My wife did not know that she was in an American hospital, and continued to mumble words in Punjabi.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I was away from her, I would call on the CVICU room phone, the nurse would hand her the handset, and as my wife listened to me telling her that I
loved her, she would mumble back in broken words. She wanted me to come back to her, and soon, as she was all alone in the strange big building and nothing made sense to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
I would promise, and she probably waited and waited and drifted to sleep, in
pain and in loneliness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could only be
with her a few hours a day, due to the Covid restrictions. I was with her in my thoughts, but it was a pain almost too great to bear to be away from her when she needed me the most.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And when I was with her for the few hours during the day, she would ask me to speak to "them". She wanted to know something, but I did not know what. Did she want me to ask them to let her go home? She would try and try to tell me and finding it impossible to come up with the words, give up in sadness and in tears.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I brought her a mirror to look into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she would hold the mirror in front of
her, unable to make sense of what she was seeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Was this she, the one who was complimented by strangers in
far-off lands?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had happened to her
long, flowing hair?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would look at
me, and I would attempt to brush her hair and soothe her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the days passed, and she remained critical. She continued to be in the CVICU for days and weeks. Her heart was unable to beat on its own, and
another surgery was planned to give her an adaptive pacemaker inside her left
shoulder.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At this point, she was in almost total surrender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She did not complain about the immense pain, about the incessant
needling, at the multiple heparin injections in her stomach, at the beeping, at
the noisy turbine in the room, at the strange sensations inside her head and in her chest, at her soiled bed sheets, …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had
no idea what was happening to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was being fed through a tube, and was not in control of her bodily
functions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was unaware that the
doctors were planning to cut her up again to implant the pacemaker. That again she would be sent into the total darkness of general anesthesia. She was often at peace.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And one day, with covid rules and time and clocks being a cognitive burden too great for her injured brain, and after waiting for interminable agonizing hours for her beloved husband to be with her as he promised her on the phone every night, unable to understand why he went away, she finally told him, through tears and unbearable pain, in words that must have come from a deep reserve of some lingering language abilities in her bleeding left-brain, that he need not come anymore, that she was now with God.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Faced with a calamity beyond their powers to address, the tender are strong, because they do not resist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their strength is in the acceptance of their fate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They place their trust in God, and often they
find that God does not answer back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
they still trust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will let life take
its course, and they have faith that life and the Gods will not let them drown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if no help comes, that that is the will of God, and they will perish
in peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When faced with an utter
inability to change their state of affairs, the ones who surrender in silence are stronger than those who flail and struggle.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>(to be continued)</i></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-84454871423869565002022-03-25T18:38:00.035+05:302022-03-28T20:10:44.862+05:30The Home and The Heart, part IIIDark house, by which once more I stand<br /> Here in the long unlovely street,<br /> Doors, where my heart was used to beat<br />So quickly, waiting for a hand,<br /> <br />A hand that can be clasp'd no more -<br /> Behold me, for I cannot sleep,<br /> And like a guilty thing I creep<br />At earliest morning to the door.<p class="MsoNormal">Chatper 3 </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Five Words <o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was another day and she was still in darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctors had decided to not wake her up to
give her more time to stabilize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
would be 40 hours after she was initially put to sleep before they would try to
wean her off anesthesia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was that
normal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They assured me it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her motionless body was now warm, but she was absent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her brain was pumped with
strong strange salts to keep it from even a dream, and her fragile heart was struggling
to beat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">There was nothing to do in the hospital, and I returned
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My younger brother and a dear friend were with me that day,
and I was grateful for their presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We talked about many things and tried to take our minds away from the
clouds hovering above the home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I woke up at 2am and looked to see if there was a message. There were two missed calls. At my home, the cellular reception is poor and calls are often dropped or not received. The voicemails said nothing. T<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">he hospital had given me access to her chart via an online tool. I logged on with her name, and saw</span> a few strange
updates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There was much activity, and many notes. Many doctors had seen her in the middle of the night. </span>There was no mention of her
waking up, but a note ominously mentioned that she had been taken for a scan of
her brain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What did that mean? Wasn't it her heart that was to be healed? Why this sudden interest in her brain?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">People say that the well-known three-word gesture of
affection is the sweetest sentence in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That night I read another sentence, only it
was five words, three adjectives and two nouns, and I hope no one ever has to read those cryptic words juxtaposed
together.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The digital letters on her hospital chart coldly said: “LARGE ACUTE COMPLETED MCA INFARCT.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, at present, when I understand what they mean, I
realize that each of these words is devastating in itself, but that
taken together, these five words are catastrophic.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One wishes it isn’t large.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or acute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that it is
incomplete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that another part of the body instead of MCA (Middle Cerebral Artery) is mentioned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or that another
word, like occlusion, instead of infarct is used.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But those five words were there, precise, grave, unalterable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read those words again and again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">LARGE. ACUTE. COMPLETED. MCA. INFARCT.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">With trepidation, I woke up my
brother and called the CVICU. My dear friend also sat silently with us as we struggled to make sense of what had happened.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was the middle of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that night would not end soon. It would stretch into days and weeks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When an infant comes into the world, its eyes wander about,
unable to fixate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does not recognize
anything, not even its mother’s face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
infant cannot hold or turn its head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
cannot yet eat, or speak, or understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But we know that it will do all those things in time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That confidence is missing for an adult who is suddenly faced with these disabilities.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the language of love is known to the infant, and I am
certain, to the adult.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I saw her on Tuesday, and held her tiny left hand, her now-open but wandering eyes could hardly see me or recognize me, but she squeezed my hand and held it
tight, as if imploring me with all her feeble power to snatch her from the reaper who was already dragging
her into eternal darkness.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">She had prayed before being taken into those nether-worlds. Had that prayer remained unheard?</p><p class="MsoNormal">I would move heaven and earth, I promised her in silence.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After a major brain stroke, the brain swells and the
neurologists worry about what they call the “mid-line-shift”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one side of the brain that is injured, is
inflamed, and pushes sideways and down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>More than a few millimeters, and it is all over.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Her left-brain was dying and bleeding inside. The left-brain controls the right side of the body, and it contains the language faculty. A large left-brain stroke like that, and the individual may never again understand words, and may never again utter one. And of course, the right side of the face, the right arm, the right leg, all become flaccid and immobile. The right eye has trouble focusing. Her stroke symptom score was 22. It was a very, very, severe blow.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was on the brink.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They would have to cut open her skull too, if the inflammation increased
even slightly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Harvard-trained surgeon who had mended her heart had come to visit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he watched her, somberly, in silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew and I knew, and we nodded at each
other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some doctors are more sympathetic
than others, but in that grave moment, he remained frozen and waited for me to
say something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had nothing to say but
I stared into his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he winced.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">He would never come back to see her again.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>(to be continued)<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-26038363757101485612022-03-25T11:08:00.026+05:302022-03-31T20:16:20.288+05:30The Home and The Heart, part II"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher."<br /><br />Chapter 2<br /><br /><b>The House of Usher<br /></b><br />The night had come and wasn't ending, and I slept fitfully. I would wake up and look at the time, and then try to sleep again. Was she asleep? Was she trembling with the thoughts of the morning? I prayed that she was kept alive through the night. Only one more night, and her heart would be mended, and she would be able to laugh again. Or so I thought.<br /><br />It was four o’clock in the morning. And I woke up and bathed. Soon I was on the empty road to the hospital. I explained to the hospital guards that my wife needed me at that hour, and they phoned someone, and I was allowed in. <br /><br />The hospital was deserted. There were no visitors at that hour, and the patients were all silent in their beds. Only the beeps attuned to the many ailing hearts broke the silence. I entered the dreaded CVICU, and as I approached her room, I saw that a light had been switched on for her. She was awake and looked utterly exhausted. As I kissed her and gave her some water, I started an Indian hymn of strength on the phone’s speaker. We both listened to it in silence. It was soon going to be time. <br /><br />The trolleys and stretchers arrived. She glanced at them briefly, and then looked at me, and lowered her head. With grave dignity and simplicity, she closed her eyes and remained still, with folded hands. Will she live? Will she ever see the stars and the moon again? She had agreed to be opened up again, but who knew what would happen to her, in the hours and days to come. Was this her final prayer? The <i>antim ardaas</i>. Only she knew, and the Gods knew, what she said in that prayer. Did she pray for herself, or for the well-being of her parents, of her husband if she was gone?<br /><br />She was put on the stretcher with all her beeping instruments and wires. I requested that I walk along with her stretcher till the last door that opened into the operation theater. As we went towards it, I held her hand and finally, when it was time to say goodbye, I embraced and kissed her and looked into her eyes and whispered to her: “I am with you, always. I will wait for you.” <br /><br />The doors closed and the long wait had begun. The doctors had told me that the operation would take four hours or so. I went to the empty waiting room and worried if her weak, slender, and gentle frame was going to be able to take the brutality of the procedure. <br /><br />The hours passed. It was Sunday, and hers, being an emergency, was the only procedure. A TV monitor showed her patient number with a yellow light against it. Would it remain yellow? What would another color mean? <br /><br />The hours passed. It was now more than four hours. Another hour. Then another. After the induction of anesthesia, she would have not felt anything. But where was she? After six hours, as I kept looking at the clock and at the yellow light against her number, my phone rang, and it was the chief surgical nurse. She said the operation was still going on, but that she had been taken off the heart bypass and her heart was beating. It took another three hours for the operation to finish. <br /><br />Those nine hours had passed for her in darkness, and for me. The nurse came to me and told me that I should not be alarmed to see her after the operation. That she would be cold to the touch and that it would not be a pleasant sight. I did not know what to expect. But she was transferred to the CVICU, and I was told to wait a few more hours as she was stabilized and wired up again. <br /><br />It was not easy to walk to her room and to dare to see her again. She was still under anesthesia. Her face was without color and puffed up, eyes closed, and a shiny glaze was on her eyelids to keep them for drying. A ventilator was doing the breathing for her, and there were dozens of intravenous lines sending her many strange drugs. A brick-like external pacemaker was making her heart beat. There was a large bandage on her sternum, under the hospital gown. There were IV needles in her neck and on her upper arms and on her lower arms. Leads for measuring her blood pressure and oxygen levels were on her body. Her lower legs were wrapped in compression pads which were connected to small pumps. And she was still in darkness. <br /><br />The surgeon came and spoke to me. He told me that she had needed eight units of blood. That her heart had been bypassed for more than four hours. A typical heart surgery bypasses the heart for 90 minutes or so. And any time after 2 hours is a predictor of failure. <br /><br />But she was alive. <br /><br />I read in the doctor’s notes that, due to her “tenuous state”, she had been “prepped and draped” and lines inserted into her body before anesthesia. I wondered what she must have felt at the strange red antiseptic liquid being rubbed on her cold naked body under the blinding white lights and under the gaze of a dozen strange people holding long metallic tools and strange motors, and as needle after needle was inserted into her. I remembered her anxiety at getting even a regular immunity needle shot. And these were long, heavy needles inserted into her neck and elsewhere. I wondered, with horror.<br /><br />The surgeon said that her veins were too tiny for the large needles when they started the bypass. They inserted the needles again and again and stretched the veins. And that she had suffered a severe vasoplegic shock (a steep decline in blood pressure) after her heart was turned back on. But that they managed to control it. What cataclysms her body must have experienced inwardly then. Nobody, not even she, knew. <br /><div><div><br />But she was alive. Barely, but alive. <br /><br />I was told she would not be woken up that day. I looked at her with immense love and tenderness, and kissed her cold forehead. <br /><br />And wearily returned home. I hoped they took care of her ravaged frame. <br /><br />What would tomorrow bring? <br /><br />… <br /><br />Would someone so acutely ailing have survived in an ancient time? Is surgery a blessing? It must be. But how brutal it is. <br /><br />Empathy is to imagine and to feel another’s pain. Does the surgeon put away his empathy to achieve his aim? <br /><br />The bonds of humanity are bonds of joy and of pain. There is not one without the other. As one light in many forms, we cannot help but reflect. And the closer the light of the other, the more acute the reflection.<br /><br />On that day when millions pray to their God, her light was feeble. I had left home in darkness, shared the darkness with my beloved during the day, and returned home in darkness.<p></p></div></div><div><i>(to be continued)</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-76727822027430210822022-03-25T04:45:00.011+05:302022-03-30T00:40:54.742+05:30The Home and The Heart, part I<p><i> (I will be writing a series of essays on something that transpired in 2021. This is the first chapter.)</i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Strong Son of God, immortal Love,<br />
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,<br />
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,<br />
Believing where we cannot prove;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chapter 1 </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>The Last Supper</b><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was 6pm. She was all wired up and the instruments were beeping incessantly. The surgeons were gathered around the bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The team of anesthesiologists was taking
notes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They would probably use Fentanyl, or would they use Propofol? </span>She was overcome with fear and foreboding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my beloved lay inclined on that bed,
trusting me with her life, I explained her condition and her history to the dispassionate
professionals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They nodded, looked at each other, and tapped on their devices. They did not look at her.</span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">It was the time of Covid, and the room was intolerable with the noise of a large industrial "negative pressure" turbine placed in the room. I had asked, and it could not be turned off.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was a hair’s breadth away from heart failure, and her
ashen face was resigned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After rebelling
for days against the re-opening of her body – she had had a prior open-heart surgery
ten years ago – that afternoon she had finally fallen to my reason and persuasion, as everyone told her and me that that was the only way to save her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hospital professionals had said that any further
delay would be “devastating”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> We could not wait any longer. </span>The surgical
teams were looking at her with disguised concern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was going to be very risky to cut open her heart again, but the risks of not doing so were
greater.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was handed the surgical consent form to sign. I scribbled my signature on it. It was a quiet, cursory act. Little could anyone know then what reverberations, what thunderstorms that quiet scribble had set in motion. The die had been cast.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The tears had dried on her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her breath was more labored than ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not knowing of her critical condition, she
had been served a meal at eleven, and she had taken a few nibbles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This fact was not unknown to the doctors as
they were preparing for the operation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A surgical patient should have an empty stomach. But this was deemed an emergency.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">The
doctors, in their worry, finally decided to give her another twelve hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The risks were already formidable, and they balked at this additional risk. </span>She had not had a proper meal in over a day now
– the hospital food was not palatable to her, and she had no appetite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But as the operation was postponed to the morning, she could now eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Theoretically, it was now allowed. </span>But it was 8pm and the hospital kitchens had
closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I ran to the cafeteria to see if they had anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> They were almost closed for the day. All the "good" food was gone. All that t</span>hey had was some awful looking vegetarian lasagna and packaged potato chips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I bought both. </span>They had one piece left of a brownie cake and I
bought that too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I brought her this
barely edible lukewarm "food" in the take-away Styrofoam container. I wanted her to have something, even if it
was just empty calories. She did not
like the lasagna at all, as it had some spinach leaves and her fear of green leafy
vegetables and what they could do to her already failed mechanical heart valve
overwhelmed her. I separated the spinach
from the cheesy portions and made her eat a little. Seeing that she was forcing herself against her will, I offered
her the brownie which she, thankfully, liked.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But she knew that I hadn’t eaten as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And on that last evening of her lucidity,
with a mind trembling with fear and faded with exhaustion and breathlessness, she implored me to please
eat as well. I was so moved by her kindness and concern for me that I had lumps in my throat. I could not eat, I felt, even if I was hungry. But she insisted, and I shared the rest of the cake with her.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">As I took a morsel of that cake, I found it indelibly delicious not because of anything in it, but because I knew that another portion of it was giving some life-energy to my wife.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was heartbroken that I could not offer her something
better to eat at what could quite possibly be the last meal of her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hallways of the CVICU,
as it was called, were now darkened, and the new shift of night nurses had arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was respectfully asked to leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told the light of my life that I would be
back before sunrise, as she was set to be sawed open at 7am the next day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I bid her good night, and drove back home with a stone over my
heart, and broke down as I sat down in our living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Would her eyes ever see this room again? Would her slender form ever again sit on this sofa?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We love the highest in another human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The frailties, the flaws, the foibles are of
little import because our love is for that light within the other, and for the
union of that light with ours.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">It is a mistake to think that love makes us weak. It is quite the opposite, I realize now. The power of love is not diminished because it includes tears and heartache. These trials and pains burnish the heart, and make it crystalline with power and strength. A man with love in his life can do things that others deem impossible. Is that weakness? Love for an idea, for justice, for a mountain peak, or for another human being, is what causes man to transcend his humanity and achieve heroism.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><i> (to be continued)</i></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-42955814959108670032021-12-07T17:43:00.010+05:302021-12-07T19:39:51.945+05:30The Fruits of Labor<p>Some earlier thoughts <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-working-class.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-pleasure-of-tangible.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</p><p>Winter is here, and the grass won't grow again until springtime. The last mowing of the fall season was a few weeks ago. I used to mow the lawn myself last year, but this year, it was difficult to find time as I was nursing my wife back to health. I engaged a lawn mowing crew on a whim as they were busy in a neighboring yard. They usually cut the grass in about twenty minutes, while it used to take me a few hours. They had a bigger lawn mower, and there were two of them. As they used to finish the job, it was a pleasure for me to see the neat lawn, and the clean patio without the little growths in the cracks. I wondered whether they ever paused for a moment to appreciate their own work? Probably not.</p><p>On an even more prosaic note, as I fold the clothes after a cycle of washing and drying, it is a pleasure to see the clean clothes, all fresh and neatly piled. I remember when during my monastic years, I used to wash my clothes by hand, and gloated as I saw them drying in the sun and in the wind. And as sometimes I bake a <i>roti</i> on the stovetop, what a pleasure to see it fluff up and become golden brown.</p><p>...</p><p>It occurs to me that there is no word for this pleasure. The pleasure of seeing work completed in front of one's eyes. I can only imagine the pleasure a bricklayer experiences after seeing a wall come up, the pleasure a road worker has as he sees the asphalt, or the pleasure of a cook seeing a meal fully cooked and laid out.</p><p>Of course, I also understand the drudgery of doing manual labor, day after day, and I imagine the pleasure diminishes soon. The exhaustion and boredom must, over time, win over the subtle pleasure of fulfilment.</p><p>One of the essential differences between white collar and blue collar work is in the immediacy and tangibility of the results of one's work. If the hard work with one's hands is tiring and usually pays little, the desk jobs are alienating. People get their degrees in data processing, accounting and management so they can earn more by just tapping on the computer, instead of carrying heavy loads and getting their clothes dirty.</p><p>But as one gains a bank balance, there is a spiritual loss of not being able to find enough meaning in one's work. The results of information work are ethereal. The work is mental, and so are the results. And the complexity of modern white collar work implies that it is accomplished by a team, with many members of the team adding a miniscule feature or factor to the end result.</p><p>There is a clear difference between writing a programming script oneself, and see it operate flawlessly and beautifully, contributing to an immediate saving of time, versus contributing to a complex software project, which ends up functional but ridden with problems and for which the "added value" is sometimes so trivial so as to be meaningless.</p><p>Consider for example the few pages of the Amazon.com's website. The product search page, the product information page, and the checkout page. Each of these is now a stable behemoth of code, to which the programming teams add a tiny tweak or feature to make it infinitesimally better. I remember, when I worked for Amazon.com at one time, a whole group of genius youngsters worked on a feature to add news links for a product to its page. That feature eventually got shelved, and never saw the light of the day. The programmers got paid handsomely, but were they fulfilled?</p><p>Monetary compensation for one's work can only go so far to make one happy. It is the meaning in one's work, and the skill and joy <i>while </i>doing that work, which also contributes to one's happiness. In addition, it is evident that the camaraderie and the "buddy pleasure" of people working with their hands is very different than the politically correct, HR approved interaction in the sterile office cafeteria.</p><p>It is unfortunate that modern man has to choose either a hard life, or a life that offers little meaning. Most choose the latter, because an aching body and an empty stomach rarely allow the luxury of being content with one's life. Maslow may have been right, but what if as you move up the pyramid, the lower blocks fall away, leaving you perched and spiritually parched?</p><p>Even more importantly, what if the pyramid is wrong, and if reality is more intertwined? What if self-actualization is a part of working with one's hands, and fighting to ward off danger? What if an abundance of food and safety is spiritually starving?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9xzgTJJGoYmhqblIjRH58O_5KxKEPdNCqUhSenH9qKqfTV6apfGkI86t50O-R5HziWCuWX8czFHRtgbaH8-PFu4uNOK3FXN5390kD7CEUdDn5OmgjbbAxpQhJISfcq4pZsSZhw/s614/4136760-article-what-is-maslows-hierarchy-of-needs-5a97179aeb97de003668392e.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="614" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw9xzgTJJGoYmhqblIjRH58O_5KxKEPdNCqUhSenH9qKqfTV6apfGkI86t50O-R5HziWCuWX8czFHRtgbaH8-PFu4uNOK3FXN5390kD7CEUdDn5OmgjbbAxpQhJISfcq4pZsSZhw/w392-h261/4136760-article-what-is-maslows-hierarchy-of-needs-5a97179aeb97de003668392e.webp" width="392" /></a></div><br /><p><i>(<a href="https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-maslows-hierarchy-of-needs-4136760" target="_blank">image credit</a>)</i></p><p>It is perhaps for this reason that white collar workers get into the expensive hobbies of climbing mountains, cross-country hiking, or long-distance bicycling. But these are "surrogate" activities, without inherent value. These are imitations of a hard life, and therefore, in the end, unsatisfying.</p><p>I was once with a group of professional hikers. They were competing to reach the summit of a beautiful mountain in the least amount of time. They had no time to stop and marvel at the views, or to listen to the silence of the valley. When we grouped together at the summit, they took a few photos, and then climbed down as quickly as they had ascended. The "high" of that accomplishment was a "high five": one entirely of a social and peer-group kind, and if one of those competitive climbers was left alone, I imagine he would have felt rather empty and despondent. </p><p>But perhaps I am wrong. To each his own happiness, you say? But then, why the modern epidemic of depression, seeking of mood alteration experiences, and the modern experience of anomie and alienation?</p><p>Being rich has its costs.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-27854790182304837782021-08-25T19:29:00.008+05:302021-08-26T14:14:28.185+05:30An Excerpt from My Father's Autobiography<p>Originally <a href="https://www.punjabitribuneonline.com/news/features/roads-i-don39t-know-90062">published</a>
in Punjabi Tribune on Aug 8, 2021.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Translated from Punjabi<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Those Paths that I cannot Fathom<br /></b></span>
Narinder Singh Kapoor<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgA-ymCunVp9wSEe80iBnmVNoFf8h84E4pGVViRzyfxnBYuyKOxVsNq7vwpGq5YuRycfLiTaawKKRA_cBqtXQcsawAbvF7Jt5BPaPnZoa-qGkJkxMI6m7W2VnQk34nti26bw5djQ/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgA-ymCunVp9wSEe80iBnmVNoFf8h84E4pGVViRzyfxnBYuyKOxVsNq7vwpGq5YuRycfLiTaawKKRA_cBqtXQcsawAbvF7Jt5BPaPnZoa-qGkJkxMI6m7W2VnQk34nti26bw5djQ/w422-h422/image.png" width="422" /></a></div><br />(painting by Gurdish Pannu)<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">(from his autobiography, <i><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif">ਧੁੱਪਾਂ</span>-</i><i><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif">ਛਾਵਾਂ</span></i><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif">, Sun-rays and Shadows)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif">It is
tragic to be a refugee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who are
forced to leave their homes to settle at an unfamiliar, alien land face untold
difficulties and hardships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this
essay, the writer has shone a light on the plight of such refugees through his
own lived experience.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span face=""Nirmala UI",sans-serif"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The last battles of the second world war were being
fought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rumors of India becoming free
were widespread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Communal tensions were
bubbling up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were hearing about
amazing new inventions from around the world which were accelerating the pace
of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot was happening, pleasant
as well as unpleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The atmosphere
was tense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this noise and chaos, I
came into this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only good
thing about my birth was that four days later it was the festival of
Diwali.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My birth had no earthly relation
to Diwali, but my mother had joined the two in her heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those times there was no record kept of a
birth in a village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was two when
amidst the celebration of India’s independence, Punjab had been ripped
apart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stumbling along, we were lost in
the caravans of refugees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if a
bale of hay had become untied in a flooded, angry river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People went wherever they could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We became refugees and after being lost in
many caravans and camps, we eventually ended up in Patiala.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some from our extended family had reached
Delhi, some were in Dehradun, a few others were in Ambala.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A lot had happened in a very short time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had lost our home and our village; my
grandfather was no longer with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
day would break, and then night would fall, but hunger was our constant
companion.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Parents possessed only a faint optimism in addition to the
clothes covering their bodies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
caravan, the corner of someone’s metal trunk had hit my grandfather’s eye and
he had lost his eyesight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had to
abandon him while still on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
episode had left my father a broken man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>During those times of severe crisis, my mother took on the reins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We witnessed the reality of the world with
our own eyes in the refugee camps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
only Patiala was an unfamiliar city, but its people too were alien to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In such a situation, Gurudwara Dukh Niwaran
Sahib in Patiala turned out to be a big pillar of support for the
refugees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were now two kinds of
people in the city: those who had been living there for a long time, and then
the refugees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From someone’s looks, it was
not difficult to recognize that he or she was a refugee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had transpired with us had also been, in
reverse, the fate of Patiala’s Muslims.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
of my mother’s valiant efforts, we had been able to secure a house vacated by a
Muslim clerk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While living in that
house, my mother would get food for us after serving <i>langar </i>in the
Gurudwara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would also resell
vegetables she had bought from the market.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We were four siblings, but our mother was taking care of all five of us,
because our father also needed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Due
to her courage, we had food everyday, but we were always hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were ready to eat anything, anytime,
anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our mother had formed cordial
and warm relations with the neighbors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Gradually, as we settled in our house, we started cooking, and washing
our clothes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was eight when there was to be a wedding at a trader’s
house a few blocks from us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was their
daughter getting married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few days
before the wedding, the lady of that house enquired from my mother if some maid
was available to wash the dishes during the event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The times were such that a refugee family
would do any work offered to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those
who could work, were always looking for work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was strange how the locals had become the masters and the refugees
the servants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those times, chefs were
arranged for the wedding feasts, but the serving was done by the menfolk of the
family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The groom’s family would arrive
the morning before and would leave the next day after lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother answered: “I will do the
dishes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was much prettier and
more graceful than that lady, but unfortunately, she, the daughter of a banker,
was now a refugee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lady, on hearing
my mother’s offer, said: “No, you cannot do the dishes!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People will look at you and think you are the
lady of the house while I am the servant.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To solve her predicament, my mother suggested: “Do not worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will stay hidden and do the work in
secret.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mother worked there for four days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would take me with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she cleaned the dishes, I felt
uncomfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would try to ensure
that nobody saw her doing that work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>During the two days when the wedding was to happen, the way the guests
and other people looked at my mother made me feel uneasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still remember the anguish of those two
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this time, I struggled to
find a way to tell my mother never to undertake this kind of humiliation again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I remember those four days, I believe
that is when I started to reflect on life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the wedding day, I broke down when I saw the huge pile of dishes that
were to be cleaned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did not want
anyone to see me in tears, and I went outside and away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when I was away, I felt that I had
abandoned my mother in that difficult hour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I wiped away my tears, returned, and started helping her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the middle of the wedding festivities, I
was distressed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am writing these words, but the decision to pen them down
was not easy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in two minds whether
to describe these episodes or not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
episode makes me ashamed of myself and is insulting to my mother’s memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I still decided to write it if only to
exhibit what trials the refugees had to go through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should feel blessed if you never had to
be a refugee.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, those four days of distress and anguish were over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During our walk back home, I was struggling,
hesitant and teary-eyed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I managed
to say to my mother: “We will never go to someone’s house to do their dishes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The words “we will never” perhaps had an
impact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother turned towards me,
looked at me for a long time, and uttered the words: “We won’t.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With that utterance, at that very moment,
while we were still in the middle of the street, my childhood came to an end.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mother had brought back sweets from the wedding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother and my sisters ate those sweets,
but I could not bring myself to touch them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I realized that my mother had accepted that work only because we were
helpless, and that realization changed my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was not my mother’s darling; she was my beloved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From behind a door or from afar, I would
steal glances at her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She became to me
the source of my determination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every
incident has a negative and a positive aspect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The negative aspect was that my mother had to go wash the dishes at
somebody’s home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The positive aspect was
that from that day, I ensured that she never had to go wash the dishes at
somebody’s home.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My shoulders were those of a child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But from that day, I was prepared to bear any
burden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had realized that I would have
to face all kinds of situations, but I was more than ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From there started my long series of menial
and low-paid jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the next
fifteen years, I labored at twenty-five different places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did any work that I was offered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I was ready to do any work even if it
wasn’t offered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every new work, every
new effort, was a step on the ladder for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Each job made me face new kinds of people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The experiences that I gained from these
jobs, and my learnings along the way, revealed life to me and became the
foundation and inspiration for my writings.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not long after, my younger sister fell seriously ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother took her to a retired doctor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor handed us a bill of fifteen
rupees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother opened the knot in her
<i>dupatta</i> and gave him all of her eight rupees and said: “In time, we will
pay you the rest.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was accompanying my
mother and my sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctor noticed
me and remarked to her: “Have this boy come to my clinic every day to
work.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my mother replied that I had
to go to school, he said: “Have him come in the mornings to clean, and then
again in the evenings for other errands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every month, I will deduct one rupee from the outstanding amount, and in
addition give him one rupee as salary.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was in third grade at that time and my school fees were also one rupee
a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was the first job of my
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would go to the clinic in the
morning, mop the floors, clean the furniture, sprinkle water street-side, and
then run to my school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I would
return in the evening, with my school bag still with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my home, that doctor’s clinic was my priority.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The work at the clinic was to me a proper job,
but on Sundays I was made to go to the doctor’s home to do the dishes, wash the
dirty clothes and clean their home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Without any extra pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I would become hungry doing all that Sunday work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the doctor’s family had their breakfast,
I hoped they would offer me something to eat as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I was never offered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to the doctor’s clinic was a local
newspaper’s office where I learnt to operate the printing press.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After some months, when we had paid the
doctor’s bill in full, I started working at the press.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There I was paid four rupees a month.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I worked in that press till tenth grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was much to learn and to pick up in
that place.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In those times, women used to cover their faces in the
presence of men. My mother said that in the struggle to feed and stay alive,
that tradition had disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
mother was brave and would go alone wherever she was needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In what was now Pakistan, girls used to study
till fifth grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother had
completed all the five grades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At her
school, she was once felicitated for her handwriting by an Englishwoman who was
accompanying the school inspector.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
those times, a woman who had studied third grade was considered a prized match for
marriage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father was a postman for
the British officers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother was
aspirational and wanted to live a good life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had traveled to all the Sikh holy places in India.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was modern in her outlook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She enjoyed meeting new people and visiting
new places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was due to her
initiative, and due to the hard work of my brother and me, that our life was
getting on track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would sew our
clothes herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was literate,
understood the importance of education and did not allow a break in our
schooling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compared to the odd job,
school was fun for me. My mother used to say: “Do difficult tasks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the difficult tasks are going to be
valued.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our mother was fond of new gadgets and new techniques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once she was on her way to the hospital for getting
her eyes checked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way she noticed
people queued in front of a shop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
divined that something of value must be on offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She enquired and was told that cooking gas
connections were being booked there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
postponed her hospital visit and got a booking done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When cooking gas started getting supplied to
our city, our home got it on day one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All the women neighbors came to our home to marvel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it came to making pickles or noodles,
constructing quilts or mattresses, or shopping for clothes, she was the
neighborhood captain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waking up early in
the morning, getting bathed, and walking four kilometers daily to and back from
the gurudwara, and being ready to assist in any way was part of her
persona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our entire family has learned
those things from her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She understood
the importance of a good breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At
our home, nobody had the time nor the inclination to fall ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When her fellow refugees wailed, remembering
their earlier homes in Pakistan, she would tell them: “Don’t look back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look ahead.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She would often tell us: “First get rid of poverty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then make efforts to become wealthy.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What she meant was that we should first solve
the basic problems of our survival, and then after having secured the foundation,
we should educate ourselves and make progress toward our goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was the head of our household.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew how to navigate life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I want to describe an instance of my mother’s progressive
outlook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once I, along with other
teachers and students, was away to Bombay-Goa for a trip that was to last
twenty days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this time, a distant
cousin of mine suddenly arrived at our home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was accompanied with his eloped fiancée, and they had come to get
married with my help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I wasn’t there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother, taking the mantle, arranged a
priest and got them married.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then
offered them a place to stay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admired
my mother’s self-confidence, her tenacity, her positive and progressive
outlook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a hero to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A hero’s example provides a bulwark and a
sense of optimism to a society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Punjab
has many martyrs and Sikh Gurus as its heroes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Krishna, because of Kurukshetra, is Haryana’s hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Himachal, for lack of a hero in its history,
hasn’t been able to forge a strong identity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A hero inspires us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whenever I feel despondent or defeated in life, I consider
the trials of Guru Gobind Singh and then my own troubles seem trivial to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throughout my life, those who I call
my heroes have given me energy and enthusiasm: Socrates, Alexander, Mahatma
Buddha, Guru Gobind Singh, Napoleon, Lincoln, … and my mother.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-68816900437271602702020-07-30T16:44:00.002+05:302020-07-30T16:48:21.759+05:30The Freedom to Disagree<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is paradoxical that the information age has become the age of disinformation and mistrust.<br />
<br />
Mistrust of courts, the state, big tech, television, documentaries, news sites, opinion writers, experts, ... seems to be increasing by the day.<br />
<br />
The reason is of course that they are no longer neutral but are using their power to push their agendas, to punish "wrong-think" and to silence dissent. <br />
<br />
The powers think that the cure for disinformation is control. NO! That will lead us back very quickly to the medieval ages where if you disagree with the powerful, you are burned at the stake. <br />
<br />
The solution must be, even if it is annoying in the short-term, to relinquish control and let truth win in the free market of ideas. <br />
<br />
Neutrality is a noble ideal because it gives "you" the power to decide. It was always hard, but today it is harder than ever to escape the screaming mob if you remain neutral in the exercise of your power. Bias (if it keeps the peace) seems to be valued higher over objectivity. <br />
<br />
Democracy must mean safety in disagreement. <br />
<br />
As someone said on Twitter: "I remember when the news used to tell us what happened and we had to decide what to think about it. Now the news tells us how to think about something, and then we have to decide if it even happened." </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-6149392052812782952019-12-21T11:31:00.000+05:302019-12-21T11:31:24.732+05:30In Defense of Cognitive Biases<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Many books have been written during the last two decades about cognitive biases. Some of the authors have been awarded Nobel Prizes for their work in this field. Kahneman's "Thinking Fast, and Slow" is a major work in this category.<br />
<br />
During my college years, we undertook a course in Logic which told us that "ad hominem" is a bad argument, and so is "appeal to authority" and so on.<br />
<br />
During recent years, "victim blaming" and "whataboutism" have become four-letter words.<br />
<br />
In formal journals, the scholar <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerd_Gigerenzer" target="_blank">Gigerenzer </a>has been <a href="https://jasoncollins.blog/2019/04/01/gigerenzer-versus-kahneman-and-tversky-the-1996-face-off/" target="_blank">a formidable adversary</a> to Kahneman et al in his defense of such "fallacies" and "biases". Interested readers can follow his work and read his papers.<br />
<br />
In this essay, I will touch upon two modern sins that I listed above, and why they are not the sins that people claim they are.<br />
<br />
<b>Victim Blaming</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Victim blaming is to hold the victim of a crime or injustice partly responsible for the crime. It is most vehemently cited when a sexual assault victim is blamed for acting in a reckless manner. In most cases, however, nobody disagrees that the criminal is wrong and he/she should be punished. The argument that the incident could have been avoided had the victim taken better precautions is considered blasphemous. <br />
<br />
However, all precaution against criminality is of the same nature. As long as we live in an imperfect world, it is important to continue to punish the criminals <i>as well as </i> to take precautions to avoid becoming a victim. If you put your wallet in the front pocket in a pickpocket-ridden area, if you drive defensively, if you watch your step in an unfamiliar location, you are protecting yourself from harm. Yes, you may be able to file a police complaint or sue if your pocket gets picked, if you are hit by another car, or if you fall and break a bone in a hotel lobby. But most reasonable people avoid harm rather than invite harm and then seek damages.<br />
<br />
Traditionally, the adage "better safe than sorry" has been a heuristic to follow. In modern times, unfortunately, the media and the "wise" tell you otherwise. While they continue to take precautions, they ask you to be flagrant.<br />
<br />
Ignore such advice, and be safe.<br />
<br />
<b>WhatAboutery</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
This is a recently coined word which means: To attack a critic with an allegation of a wrongdoing at their end.<br />
<br />
Say, politician A says to politician B: "You spend your Sundays at leisure instead of working for the country." And B replies: "You have no right to lecture me as you go on a two-month vacation every year instead of tending to your constituents."<br />
<br />
The first criticism gets deflated by such a response, but the WhatAboutery brigades say: "No, no, answer the allegation on its merits. Don't accuse the accuser of something else."<br />
<br />
The problem is, human activity is acceptable or not depending on the <i>norms</i> prevalent in a setting. If everybody is breaking rules, you cannot be expected to follow them. If someone expects you to follow a rule, they must first demonstrate that the rule is followed quite generally, especially by themselves, and that you are an exception.<br />
<br />
Traditionally, an allegation of theft coming from a thief was called Hypocrisy. Whataboutery is calling out the hypocrisy. Even if the reverse allegation is of a different kind ("you have no right to call me fat when you dropped out of college"), it is <i>still </i>reasonable in the sense that the accuser must first put their house in order before being considered a serious voice of morality or ethics. If the accuser has multiple failures of their own, traditionally they have little right to criticize others.<br />
<br />
Traditionally, the heuristic has been: "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones at others." And it is a good heuristic. Only someone relatively blameless and upright has the moral right to criticize someone else for their failings. Yes, their criticism stands on its own in a <i>formal</i> sense, and a mature individual would take their admonition at face value and try to determine whether self-improvement is warranted, but in a <i>social</i> sense, their criticism will not be considered worthwhile. <br />
<br />
People expect a moral policeman to be moral himself. For good reason. It is hard to be moral and ethical, and if the accuser finds it hard, the accused is saying, in other words, "Fix yourself before you try to fix me."</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-67166089669405112122019-11-12T21:15:00.001+05:302019-11-12T21:15:39.739+05:30The Basic Tenets of Sikhism<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today is the 550th birth anniversary of the first Sikh Guru, Guru Nanak Dev.<br />
<br />
As commonly understood, and according to nothing less than <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Three_pillars_of_Sikhism" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>, the basic teachings of Guru Nanak can be summarized as:<br />
<br />
ਨਾਮ ਸਿਮਰੋ, ਕਿਰਤ ਕਰੋ, ਵੰਡ ਛਕੋ<br />
<br />
Loosely translated as: Keep remembering the name, work for your living, and to share one's wealth with the community.<br />
<br />
However, it is a myth that these are the three tenets of Sikhism. Nowhere in the Guru's teachings, except for passing references to the working for one's living and being kind, are the latter two tenets mentioned. Far be from it that the latter two tenets are "central" to Sikhism.<br />
<br />
The first tenet ("remember the name") is indeed mentioned repeatedly in the Guru's teachings. But as I have <a href="https://harmanjit.blogspot.com/2017/10/guru-shabad-naam.html" target="_blank">written previously</a>, almost universally, Sikhs are either ignorant or confused about what the "name" refers to, and what does it mean to "remember" the name.<br />
<br />
Most Sikhs take it to trivially mean just chanting "<i>Satnam Waheguru</i>". This particular mantra, and this particular practice of chanting is nowhere mentioned in the Sikh gurus' teachings.<br />
<br />
I would love to be proven wrong.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-38346790259499924012019-11-12T21:06:00.004+05:302019-11-12T21:06:58.686+05:30Spirituality as Analgesia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"Religion is the opium of the people." (Karl Marx, 1843)<br />
<br />
Of course, as is well-understood now, by this statement, Marx indicated that religion offers a coping mechanism to numb the suffering in one's life.<br />
<br />
In his <a href="https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1843/critique-hpr/intro.htm" target="_blank">words</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
... Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The abolition of religion as the illusory happiness of the people is the demand for their real happiness. To call on them to give up their illusions about their condition is to call on them to give up a condition that requires illusions. The criticism of religion is, therefore, in embryo, the criticism of that vale of tears of which religion is the halo.</blockquote>
The new-age corollary to this dictum is:<br />
<br />
<b>Spirituality is symptomatic relief for the ills of modernity.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Spirituality offers a feel-good state, a state of "inner" peace or bliss, which is to be achieved by efforts directed solely at modification of one's inner state.<br />
<br />
If the circumstances of modernity, and the ills thereof, are unaddressed, then spirituality can be considered a painkiller which does naught for the underlying disease.<br />
<br />
Of course, analgesia is an important discipline in medicine, to lessen suffering while the real disease is cured over time, or deemed incurable.<br />
<br />
But it is possible to be merely addicted to painkillers, or spiritual practice, without having any insight into the disease (or one's life situation), and efforts to address the cause.<br />
<br />
Unless a spiritualist is also engaged in effectively transforming his living situation, spiritual practice is akin to taking an aspirin everyday for a wound that continues to fester. The need for that aspirin will continue, and may even increase. Except in the happy circumstance that the wound gets healed on its own. Which is possible.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-88420339923006536902019-09-27T07:20:00.002+05:302019-09-28T05:50:32.045+05:30A Ghazal by Saleem Kausar<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
मैं ख़याल हूँ किसी और का (सलीम क़ौसर)<br />
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<br />
मैं ख़याल हूँ किसी और का, मुझे सोचता कोई और है <br />
सर-ए-आईना मेरा अक्स है, पस-ए-आइना कोई और है<br />
(पस-ए-आइना = behind the mirror) <br />
<br />
मैं किसी के दस्त-ऐ-तलब में हूँ, तो किसी के हर्फ़-ऐ-दुआ में हूँ <br />
(दस्त-ए-तलब = outstretched hands, हर्फ़-ऐ-दुआ = words of prayer)<br />
मैं नसीब हूँ किसी और का, मुझे माँगता कोई और है <br />
<br />
अजब ऐतबार-ओ-बेइतबारी के दरमियान है ज़िन्दगी <br />
में क़रीब हूँ किसी और के, मुझे जानता कोई और है <br />
<br />
मेरी रौशनी तेरे ख़द्द-ओ-खाल से मुख़्तलिफ़ तो नहीं मगर<br />
(रौशनी = sight, ख़द्द-ओ-खाल = features, मुख़्तलिफ़ = unfamiliar)<br />
तू क़रीब आ तुझे देख लूँ, तू वही है या कोई और है <br />
<br />
तुझे दुश्मनों की ख़बर न थी मुझे दोस्तों का पता नहीं <br />
तेरी दास्तां कोई और थी मेरा वाक़िया कोई और है <br />
<br />
वही मुन्सिफों की रवायतें वही फ़ैसलों की इबारतें <br />
मेरा जुर्म कोई और था पर मेरी सज़ा कोई और है <br />
<br />
कभी लौट आएं, तो पूछना नहीं, देखना उन्हें गौर से <br />
जिन्हें रास्ते में खबर हुई कि ये रास्ता कोई और है <br />
<br />
जो मेरी रियाज़त-ए-नीम-शब् को 'सलीम' सुबह न मिल सकी<br />
(रियाज़त-ए-नीम-शब् = midnight prayer)<br />
तो फ़िर इस के मानी तो ये हुए कि यहां ख़ुदा कोई और है<br />
<br />
<i>(with help from <a href="https://www.rekhta.org/ghazals/main-khayaal-huun-kisii-aur-kaa-mujhe-sochtaa-koii-aur-hai-saleem-kausar-ghazals-1" target="_blank">Rekhta</a>, a recitation in the poet's own voice is on this page) </i><br />
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-64443824631950195922019-05-19T18:05:00.004+05:302019-05-19T18:05:50.205+05:30The Nostalghia of Photograph<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The knowledge that makes us cherish innocence makes innocence unattainable. (Irwing Howe)<br />
<br />
<i>Nostalghia </i>is a 1983 Russian film by Andrei Tarkovsky.<br />
<br />
From <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nostalghia" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The film depicts a Russian writer .... During his stay he is struck with nostalgia for his homeland, longing for an inner home, a sense of belonging, and a clash between his personal vision of the world, and the real conditions. ... profound form of nostalgia ..., comparing it to a disease, "an illness that drains away the strength of the soul, the capacity to work, the pleasure of living", but also, "a profound compassion that binds us not so much with our own privation, our longing, our separation, but rather with the suffering of others, a passionate empathy.</blockquote>
Photograph is a 2019 film by Ritesh Batra, who previously directed the acclaimed film <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lunchbox" target="_blank">The Lunchbox</a>. The film follows a man from rural Uttar Pradesh making his living in Bombay clicking photographs of tourists, and a middle class woman student who he happens to meet.<br />
<br />
Both of them are lost and alone in their lives, nostalgic for an earlier, simple way of living. The man lives with his friends, and the woman has a caring family, but their feelings and desires linger in silence. The man is trying to find his footing in a world that has brutalized him in many ways, and the woman is silently waiting for whatever life might have in store for her.<br />
<br />
The nostalgia is not just about an earlier way of living, in which joys were simple and the relationships more about love and the bonds of family. It is also about the nostalgia of an adult for his childhood. The innocence of being a child is hard to maintain as one tries to navigate a world in which pragmatism and planning take the place of spontaneity and freedom from care.<br />
<br />
The film celebrates silences, showing instead of verbalizing. Old songs, traditional street food, old taxis, old people, extinct drinks, out of fashion adornments and cosmetics, old cinema halls, ...<br />
<br />
There is a certain lack of ambition and aspiration in children, as is probably there among people who have their homes in the hills or in a remote village. They are content with the little pleasures of an occasional celebration, of an infrequent treat, and of a simple gift.<br />
<br />
Of course, the film paints the poor people as carefree, innocent and caring and the rich and urbane as somewhat manipulative and stressed. It is true to some extent. The poor do not have much to lose, and they can thereby be more "in the moment" and heart-driven than the rich.<br />
<br />
But poverty, the brutality of which is hinted at in the film when it describes the man's early years, is not entirely a romantic phenomenon. There is immense suffering in it. The daily grind and the daily humiliations of being at the lower end of society drain a man of his innocence as surely as the competition and upward mobility of the rich.<br />
<br />
In a key scene, the woman innocently says to another man that she wishes to live in a village. Earlier in the scene, the man has casually bragged that he can be happy "anywhere", but is taken aback when he hears her.<br />
<br />
The woman idealizes the village life as being idyllic, not having actually lived it.<br />
<br />
I used to think, when observing slums and the urban poor in the big cities in India: Why do these poor people come to the city and live in such inhuman conditions? Do they not miss their village? Yes, they might have a television now, but is their cramped and rotten living really better than what they had in their earlier life? <br />
<br />
It is a complex question. But if we trust that these unfortunate people make their decisions not in foolishness but with regret and resolve, the answer must be that despite the open fields, the skies and the clouds, the simpler life, their earlier time in the village must be, in the final analysis, a romanticized nightmare of insecurity, scarcity and indignity.<br />
<br />
They have a different kind of indignity in the city, but the city offers them at least a hope of making a life in which their children will have a place in the world, and not merely be blown around by the winds of the caste system, of oppressive landlords, of a capricious monsoon, of a criminal neglect and usurpation of their lands (if they have any) by those who can.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
The wish of a human being that he will again be fragrant and innocent, once he traverses the hard and brutal terrain of a world that values only value, is a tragic one. For that innocence will find itself deeply buried in the end, unless it is carefully renewed and nourished every day.<br />
<br />
To keep one's inner child alive is not a mild undertaking, it is the very dream and the eventual hope of man: That one will again be <i>free</i> to be as one was.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-21630114913198842852019-05-06T03:17:00.001+05:302019-05-06T03:24:54.074+05:30An Essay by Teja Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Principal Teja Singh (born Tej Ram) was a Punjabi scholar who lived during the first half of the twentieth century. He wrote many scholarly works on Punjabi language and Sikh scriptures, but is also famous for his simple, charming and heartfelt essays.<br />
<br />
His most famous essay, one often found in school textbooks in Punjab, was titled <b>"ਘਰ ਦਾ ਪਿਆਰ"</b>. The title is difficult to translate. It roughly means the love and affections one experiences at home and from one's family. "Domestic Love" is too prosaic and uninspired a translation.<br />
<br />
One finds this essay in his compilation <b>"ਗੁਸਲਖਾਨਾ ਤੇ ਹੋਰ ਲੇਖ" </b>(The Bathhouse and Other Essays). It was likely published in the 1940s. Fortunately, the book has been <a href="http://www.panjabdigilib.org/webuser/searches/displayPage.jsp?ID=5518&page=1&CategoryID=1&Searched=" target="_blank">digitized and archived</a> by Panjab Digital Library.<br />
<br />
I vaguely remember reading this essay during my school years but had forgotten about it. A dear friend had created an audio version of the Punjabi essay. I read the essay in Punjabi and listened to her audio.<br />
<br />
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<br />
But I could not find any English translation of this book, or of any of the essays.<br />
<br />
It seemed worthwhile to me to translate at least this essay from the book. The friend who had created the audio version reviewed my translation and offered valuable and helpful feedback, which I happily incorporated.<br />
<br />
You can <a href="https://bit.ly/2Vhg8CM" target="_blank">read the essay here</a>. A PDF version is <a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1v4Wg21dIF921gCWEaDHLbo8GB3jdqOZU/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Many years ago, I had the pleasure of digitizing (by simply typing) a similarly themed short book by a Russian writer.<br />
<br />
That book was <b>"The Family and Society"</b> by Leonid Zhukhovistky. I found it a breezy, and quite a fascinating and at times touching read. You can <a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B5rMljbFiemoYzc4NDk4YmYtZGJlOC00MzE4LWI2YjQtMjlmYmE0MTdhYzE2" target="_blank">read the book here</a>.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7037385.post-16689460375444664932019-04-25T17:01:00.002+05:302019-04-25T17:05:11.286+05:30Judicial Pace and Violence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A cumbersome judicial process, as is there in India, leads to horrific crimes by ordinary people when they see no way out to resolve a civil dispute.<br />
<br />
Every other day I read about "a woman and her paramour" killing "her husband" because divorce was not a possibility. Similarly, there are husbands who want to separate from their wives but there being no way to do so legally (and also due to the gender-biased laws which are sympathetic to women), remain married and are cruel to her.<br />
<br />
One often reads of people resorting to stone-pelting, self-immolation and lynchings because they have no faith in the judiciary to deliver justice. Even the police, the guardians of law, resort to torture, confessions and killings because they know the criminal will likely never be convicted.<br />
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There are millions of property disputes lingering in Indian courts. Quite a few murders in India are because of dubious claims to being a heir, unsettled property disputes or ambiguities in someone's will.<br />
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Many of the lynchings are a form of "instant justice" by the mob because the mob, somewhat justifiably, has no faith in the police and the judiciary.<br />
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Millions of under-trials languish in jails because their cases are stuck, and they are not literate enough to know their rights to bail or to a speedy trial. The latter right, of a speedy trial, is probably just a fiction and I have never seen a criminal case thrown out because it took too long.<br />
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Judicial fairness and agility is of fundamental importance in any civil society. If the disputes and crimes are not fairly and promptly adjudicated, feelings of helplessness, frustration, anger, despondence, hysteria, are almost a certainty.<br />
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The despots of society are fearless of consequences, and the ordinary law-abiding citizen remains cowed in fear and frustration. And often, very normal people are driven to criminality because they have run out of patience.<br />
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As I have written elsewhere, India suffers from not just judicial dysfunction, but dysfunction at all levels of jurisprudence:<br />
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1. The laws are horribly drafted, are ambiguous, and in many cases, archaic.<br />
2. The law-enforcement machinery (the police) is over-worked, corrupt, and openly influenced by politicians and bureaucrats.<br />
3. The public prosecutors are apathetic and either too lax on real criminals or too pedantic (grant-custody-your-honor, deny-the-bail-your-honor) and hence draconian on the innocents.<br />
4. The judiciary is unprofessional, unpredictable and temperamental, glacially slow, unwilling to punish judges whose decisions are reversed in higher courts, and encouraging of the lawyer mafia, uncaring of the endless petitions and appeals process, and soft on the state.<br />
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There is no easy or quick solution, but each of these rotting pillars need to be fixed, and they <i>can </i>be fixed. There are vested interests which want the state of affairs to continue, despite the fact or perhaps because of the fact, that this state of affairs is brutal</div>
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