May 20, 2011

May 20, 2011. Another day in the calendar. Another year of no great landmark to leave behind – except for knowing ‘life’ a little more intimately. Today turned un-ordinary. A day was filled with joy, sporadic giggles of unanticipated phone calls, messages, emails on what could have been a dull, mundane May 20, 2011.

Birthdays are no ceremonies of grandeur, once you have come of “age”. It just shows that you have come to a point where you can look back and see how much of turf you have covered, and how much more you need to as you inch older and older.

Age is merely chronology. It is a number. And 16 is a number too. At least that is what I feel in my heart, soul and spirit. The joy of a free spirit that sours the sky to sing the song of the wonder of the earth, sky, life and people is number 16! I am 16. I feel fulfilled by the wonderful people around me, who on what could have been a tedious day of schedules and tasks to accomplish, offered a day of sheer beauty.

Shilpa sent me a beautiful note in a couple of hours after she took her seat in office (she called to wished me early morning, sent me a text making a special wish to the universe and that not being enough, sent me an ecard!) It read: “May you have a gr8 day!! the number of calls u get and wishes u get are the number of blessings u are getting today. And that so many people love u and care for u!! Enjoy your day in whatever way it makes u feel good from inside!!”

Towards 5 in the evening, she continued to be shocked. My phone had not stopped ringing for even 5 seconds. She wondered aloud how on earth an otherwise silent day at work had suddenly tumbled on May 20!

She told me, “I like the way u laugh! I know it’s a cheesy line, but it feels good to hear someone laugh all the time”. How was I to tell her that here were friends who were calling and singing “happy birthday to you!” often in the most astonishing of tunes!

A song sung with love is a song of love, no matter the pitch, the tone, or the rhythm. The jarring of the tone is love too. That is another miracle of love!

Shireen as always waits for the day to break. She calls the moment the suns rays touch the earth on May 20th. Today she called me at 6.15 and made the most beautiful wish. It completes with a blessing I receive from her mom, as the phone is passed to her mom who is merely waking up! Sheroo has followed this tradition for the many years of friendship we have shared. May be for a few decades now! I know this is something she will do until I die. Every May 20th when the phone rings first in the morning, I will know it is she.

Sandy said “wish you a very happy birthday fellow taurean......amazing.....may this day bring you tons of good luck and millions of best wishes from all corners of the world....” Sandy and I go beyond the college playgrounds to the large stacks of University library books, to several ups and ups of life!

And then there was Ani who often teases me that I am a star! (I take that with loads of salt sack). She left a note knowing that I had already kick-started to a busy day of receiving greetings. “What did I tell you about having STAR status in this part of the Cosmos :-) !! Happy Birthday again Pal...”

By 21st when I started re-reading all the messages that were sent on Facebook – it nearly had crossed well over a hundred! I know that my phone has not stopped ringing through the day and it was wonderful to hear friends call me from everywhere. I had clearly received over 30 to 40 phone calls! Emails - countless!

The conversations I had with my brothers were special. It was a long time since we had such beautiful, heartfelt conversations. I could hear the love, affection and care in their voice when they made that special wish for their only sister. It made me dewy eyed!

Apple wrote, “May each day of this new year of your life be filled with peace, joy, fun, and happiness. Happy Birthday, dear Lavs”, and another friend wrote “ Hey Lavanya, have a mind-blowing b'day...have fun!!! May God always keep u happy n smiling!!! :)"

I realized most of the wishes said that my smile and laughter should stay intact despite the years that add to the chronology. I hope I can allow that to remain. My mom would always tell me that I should laugh softly, such that the laughter should not touch the selling. But mine would crash through the loft and out of the red tiles of a traditional house!

I was moved by DJ who said, “ Hey Laze, May your birthday be filled with smiles, sunshine, love, and laughter and Remember that today many people are glad you were born." Happy Birthday Wishes to you...have fun".

Anne, wrote to me “My dear Lavanya, I wish you a very very Happy Birthday and for the next year sunshine, laughter and only beautiful moments!!"

There are countless messages that I could bring here. I have captured the essence of the day, so that I can come back to it many years later to read about the wonder of a day that was no less than a miracle of love.

Yes, Shruthi Alva, you said that we often have a diffrence of opinon on this one - you insist that all my friends call me because they see me as special. I feel worthy for all the generosity that friends have for me. She made is clear that I should not go on to defend that “I am quite ordinary, simple and just a stray person on the block!”. Shru, I feel special because I have special people all around me – like you! Each one unique. Each a wonder. Each a treasure. Each a beautiful person. Each a reflection of the beauty of the world around me.

And thus the day ended with candle light dinner hosted by dear friends of mine. Arati told me, “ We want to celebrate YOU!”

They stood by me when I moved out of the cozy IT industry to the Non-profit development sector. I missed Ali, Manju and Meg. But calls on speaker phones did the trick of a girls-union party! I let down my hair, glowed in the candle lights on the dinner table, laughed, talked, listened away to all the conversation that accompanied the rich food on the platter. Yes, the tele did not stop beeping with messages trickling in before May 20th could end.

To sum it all: I had one of the most beautiful fairy tale days of my life! It was a celebration. A celebration of friendship. A day filled with lots of love, sparkles of laughter, and pure joy of togetherness.

I am humbled by the friendship I have seen, known and found from diverse people from here n there and from the different corners of the world. I do not need May 20 to show me that. It is merely a day of manifestation!

I feel profoundly humble. The incredible wonder of life continues to fascinate me. The miracle of bonding, friendship is here to stay. I need to live up to this. Friends are my manifestation of life. I feel fulfilled by each of this wonder.

Through the blink of an eye, they say, you can easily miss a miracle that is played before you. May 20th whoosh passed in a blink of an eye. The miracle was captured. As I closed my eyelids, I embraced the little moments of miracle a little longer, to hold it in time.
~~~*~~~
PS: Dimple sends me a message just now:  " Oh Shuks, Friday was ur birthday!!!!! Kick me on my ass. Wish you a great year nd loads of happiness..."

Sylvester sent me this text on 22nd:  " Dear Lavany, wishing you a Very Happy Belated Birthday. A Very Happy 16th Birthday! May God continue to bless you with that perpatually bubbling positiveness towards everything in and around you. May God also bless us all with this wonderful attitude of yours. C-ya. Sylve*"

Through the death of an unknown, I renew my promise

I have read this article (For the poor, death is as miserable as living by Dr Asha Benakappa) at least three times now. When I read it the first time, I could not finish it...I walked into the little garden of my office – only to see little children play in front of their shacks. The line of shacks are staked on an abandoned apartment construction site. Reality intrudes into tiny gardens confined around walls.I know there are a million stories of hopelessness in this world.

Every time I read this article, a tear fills my eyes...

I take solace from one thing alone, that here is a doctor who is visibly moved by this “mere-everyday-event”. Perhaps she is the lifeline of hope that everything in this world is not so cruel, cold-blooded, hard-hearted, insensitive and cynical for the poor patients who come from nothing and go to nothing. This is hope.

I take solace from the fact that when everything is ripped off – these little acts of care and love continue to prevail. I promise myself that I will never let these two things go off my life, body and consciousness – no matter what the scale of suffering is! This is a promise to myself.

Perhaps Hanumanthappa does not realise that his death is not wasted – for I have renewed my promise, to wake up every morning and tell the universe “Thank You” for a life that I live to touch even one person in my lifetime will be worth the salt of my existence. Perhaps, Muniyappa does not know that his story of loss, poverty, death and love, has helped me cement my conviction that suffering is what we cannot escape. It is gruesome for those who have known nothing but suffering. Whoever said that death was a leveller? Perhaps, Muniyappa does not know that his death is not wasted, for his has moved me in ways beyond a mere-tale read in the newspaper. That when all is said and done, love alone can help you carry the your loved one in a trunk. Through this I renew a promise made to myself.

 ***

When I am low, beaten, dejected and wallowing in "self-pity" of how unfair life is to I...When I dramatise my histrionics and say “why god why?!!? Why me!!!” I’ll remember to read this article. It will serve a surreal point of reference. It will help me meet myself, to a promise I made myself. To renew my vows, again.

I hope friends who read my blog will share in this journey of renewing a promise we made to ourselves that we so often forget.

****~~~~~****

For the poor, death is as miserable as living

By Dr Asha Benakappa

Hanumanthappa, a 14-year-old boy and only son of Muniyappa, a poor farmer from Koppal, was brought to Vani Vilas Hospital, Bangalore, a few weeks ago for treatment.

He was suffering from rheumatic heart disease for the past five years. It took his father as many years to organise the money for his son’s treatment in Bangalore. He sold his few guntas of land for a paltry sum to raise the funds. When Hanumanthappa was finally taken to Jayadeva institute of Cardiology, Muniyappa was told that his son was suffering from terminal heart disease and had only a few days to live. It was then that the young boy was shifted to my unit of the Vani Vilas hospital, where the father and son stayed with us for three weeks.

Muniyappa had lost his wife and had not married again. He had brought some ragi, a kerosene stove and some miscellaneous items in a gunny bag. He would cook for himself in the courtyard of the hospital and the son would get food from the hospital kitchen. He would run around for the investigations.He himself was very much run down. He had a small pouch hanging around his waist carrying that precious money. Slowly, the pouch became smaller and so also the gunny bag as days passed by, with no hope of his son ever recovering.

Every morning, before the doctors visited his son in the intensive care unit, Muniyappa would go about with his routine of giving the bedridden Hanumanthappa a bath, brush his teeth and put fresh set of tattered cloths, washed and dried in the courtyard of the hospital.

The love and affection father and son had for each other is something which I can never forget as long as I live. The picture is permanently etched in my mind. The implicit dedication the father had and the belief that his only child would recover, draws tears to my eyes even today. He would spend the money only for the medical expenses and not for food or anything else. All these pennies were saved to ‘save’ his only child.

The child’s illness would have ups and downs. Whenever he was critical, the father would lean to his bedside and reassure. Amidst all that pain and agony Hanumanthappa would laugh and tell the father to be brave, while he fought with death. It was very touching to see this frail father carry the boy to the toilet when he was not too sick, give him the bed pan when very sick. I never saw him grumbling any time. Always by the son’s side he would stoically face the situation all alone.

It was unfortunate that I happened to be there when Hanumanthappa breathed his last. The father was called in to the intensive care ward and told about the son’s death. He did not cry. Wish he had done. He quietly collected all those precious belongings which had now reduced to half a gunny bag and that dangling pouch had a few hundreds.

Beyond his reach

Muniyappa disappeared for a good hour or two. We were all wondering where he could have gone because for the three weeks he was in and around us 24/7. While we were thinking of organising to shift the body to mortuary and label it abandoned, as hospital policies does not permit us to keep the body in the ward for more than three hours, Muniyappa appeared panting and puffing carrying a fairly big ‘trunk.’ He quietly went about doing his work with a little assistance from all of us. That is folding up his son’s body and fitting it into that trunk. Curiosity overtook my emotions and I asked him why he was doing this. He said, he had gone out to enquire about a taxi to carry his dead son to Koppal. He wanted his son’s body to be laid to rest in their soil, but the cost of carrying the dead body was three and half to four thousand rupees (which was more than the money he had brought for his son’s treatment, after selling the land).

He told me, in a matter of fact tone, that the trunk had cost him four hundred, which he would put as a luggage in the bus and ticket for himself. The frail man asked us to raise the trunk on to his head and mustered himself to walk out of the hospital on to a bus to far off Koppal to lay the body to rest. Somehow, Hanumanthappa and Muniyappa are two wonderful people whom I cannot forget. For the poor, death is costlier than life.

Poverty has no grief. Hardship is an everyday affair. Despite the tragedy, the man had the determination to carry the body and rest it in the soil of his land and perform those last rites.

For many days, these thought of the father and son kept creeping in my mind and went about asking the KSRTC about transporting the dead bodies. They said there was no provision at all. I wasn’t interested in giving them the information that the ‘trunk’ in their luggage could contain a dead body. I only hope that Muniyappa had somehow managed.

It is 62 years since independence and we still do not have helpful policies and laws in place. The poverty stricken common man has no voice after the vote. He bears death also in the same way as of life’s miseries.

http://www.deccanherald.com/content/157714/for-poor-death-miserable-living.html

Love lights the whole sky

Love lights the whole sky*

Even after all this time,

The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe me."

Look what happens with

A love like that.

It lights the whole sky.
~~~*~~~

*The sun danced with the clouds, rubbing a little color and light onto it. I caught the brilliance of this play from my balcony! 

Driving Through the Clouds

Shifting the gear, delicately placing your feet on the accelerator, speeding the car steadily into a long quiet drive, with your favourite music quivering the speakers into endless roads makes a perfect getaway. To be all by yourself. You sing so out of tune imitating the song that is by now rewound for the nth time. With every place that passes by, every tree that is left behind, stray people who have walked past look tiny from the rear-view mirror, your thoughts pass in a string. Left behind. New ones taking on. Leaving behind each that comes and goes. The steady drive on clear roads lead you into the clouds. You leave the large patches of cloud behind and drive into a cloudless sky, trying to catch up to the point where the tar road meets the sky. It’s as mirage.

Life is a long drive.

You try to leave the dark clouds behind. The dark ones come after you. Then they swell open to a downpour. The smell of the earth is nectar. The earth breathes softly the earthy fragrance. You stop for a while. To listen to the earth breathe. To smell the earth.  The dark clouds don’t matter. The rain does not matter too. You put your head outside the rolled-down window. You park the car to the side, with the hazard light peeping.

I love the rain. I love the smell of earth. I step out holding my hands to cup the little blobs of water that lazily sets into a downpour. My hair is ruffled by the wind. I lean on my red car. I call her Dhanu Rani . She is my companion through the solitary drives I have become so used to. I lean delicately, as the rain now steadily pours the darkness of the clouds. I look up to the sky, and allow the rain to fall on my closed eyes. I giggle out of sheer joy. Getting wet in the rain was a childhood routine. I want to live that moment again. Who cares if I catch a cold. I want to make paper boats and send it into the little streams of water.

It rains. I stretch out my hands – as if I am taking wings to fly free. I am lost in my own union with the cosmos. The pure joy of innocence fills me with a rapture, that is intermingled with solitude, quiet and silence. Tears pour down my eyes. Intermingled with raindrops from the sky. Stretching my hands out, head tilted towards the sky, hair in sheer disarray, I allow the tears to gush forth. They say, a person drenched in the rain, needn’t fear the downpour.

April showers are short.

You drive through the dark clouds that have passed. The clear cloud opens up. Soon. The wait is not too long. It can be. But it turned out fine. You realize you have driven far too long. You can go on forever. Driving. The roads do not end. Perhaps they just don’t – for there may be a huge rush where it all ends.

I have driven long. Alone. The genre of music has changed many times. The sun has set long before. I love driving into the cold, windy night. It has a quite eerie feeling. You see the same places that you left behind take on a new distinction. Of darkness that is sometimes lit in patches of fluorescent lamps. You drive past dogs that chase you for a glee that they only know.

Driving through wet roads is romantic. The puddle of water shines through the different colours of light, moon and darkness. The swoosh sound of the wiper adds to the lull of quiet.

I drive through all of that and more. Knowing I set out on a long drive sums up my life in a nutshell.

I am in no hurry.

~~~~*~~~~~