Drawing a mental blank...

I'm drawing a blank on what to post on my blogs. Writer's block? Maybe. I have a sneak feeling that the absence of misery in my life might have something to do with it. :) Yea...I've been miserable for the past five years. It's just that I didn't know I was miserable and depressed and thought that's just how my life was meant to be.

Then I couldn't cope anymore and sought professional help. Suddenly, everything was clear: like I had a bird's eye view of the past few years. I wondered how I had managed to muddle through that time. And when the professional help started to work, I had this huge burst of creativity. I was brimming with ideas on what to write on my blog. I had ideas for short stories popping up at all kinds of odd hours. I even wrote a few. I loved that.

I managed to get a grip on the uncertainty at work, learned not to let DH's mood swings affect me, developed an even better relationship with my son, and well...things were great. Even better was the fact that my son's eye condition was under control.

And now...I'm blank as far as my writing is concerned. The doctor says I'm progressing very well. So I can't help but wonder if the two are connected. It also looks like I'm slipping with the control I'd gained over my eating habits. At first I thought it was the usual PMS-related carb cravings. But I don't think that's it. For the past week, I haven't been able to write anything. (Trust me, even this post has been a major effort.) And as for ideas for short stories...muahahaha...(that's my insane laughter, btw...insane and hopeless...*sob, sob, sob.*)

Is this the end of the road? Or am I really not meant to write again?

Update on my son's Coats condition

I'm smiling. I'm relieved. I'm thanking the Almighty once again. And I'm taking my son on a beach vacation. All because he had his doctor's appointment on Tuesday (1 day later than planned) and it turns out that there has been no fresh leakage since his second cryopexy treatment last October to treat the Coats Disease. The exudates (residue of the leakage) are still there but the doctor believes this will be absorbed by the body over time. Otherwise, some laser can be done. But there's no treatment required for now.

So of course, this was reason to celebrated. The little fellow has been hankering to go back to the beach for over a year now. And it wasn't possible before this because everytime there was a school break, he had either a procedure or a doctor's appointment scheduled. In the meantime, his friends have gone on several vacations so he's been feeling a little left out.

More on that later. Just wanted to share the good news. :-)

Thank you SOOOO much, everyone who prayed. God bless you.

Related posts
Pray for my son, please

Happy Holi, Happy Easter: What a weekend!

Time magazine reported that six major religious days co-incided this past Friday.

"Good Friday! Happy Purim, Happy Eid, Happy Holi, etc... In what is statistically, at least, a once-in-a-millennium combination, the following occured on the 21st: Good Friday

Purim, a Jewish festival celebrating the biblical book of Esther Narouz, the Persian New Year, which is observed with Islamic elaboration in Iran and all the "stan" countries, as well as by
Zoroastrians and Baha'is.

Eid Milad an Nabi, the Birth of the Prophet, which is celebrated by some but not all Sunni Muslims and, though officially beginning on Thursday, is often marked on Friday.

Small Holi, Hindu, an Indian festival of bonfires, to be followed on Saturday by Holi, a kind of Mardi Gras.

Magha Puja, a celebration of the Buddha's first group of followers, marked primarily in Thailand..." (Read more from Time)

I played Holi for the first time in decades. This time because my son wanted to. He and a few other children on our floor got together with some "safe colors" which they rubbed on each others' faces and clothes and hair and well...you get the picture. No colored water because it was sooooo windy and we didn't want the children catching a cold. DH was a sport although he claims to hate the festival. (Things can get out of hand because men will sometimes drink too much and we all know the kind of trouble that can cause.)

My mother got some natural color out of a beautiful red flower. That's how they originally played Holi in the olden days.

None of the other mommies on the floor wanted to join in - it's really a north Indian festival and Bangalore is in the south - so the kids had to be entertained by just me. I don't think they minded in the least. I put colorful moustaches on all their faces, followed by warrior motifs and everything else they thought up. :-)

Last December, my son gifted me my best ever Christmas. And now, I got to play Holi because he wanted to. Once again, thank you, Poppet.

Whatever made me think I could write again?

I spent some time last night poring over the profiles and comments of fellow members of the online writers' group that I'm a part of and that's left me...awestruck doesn't begin to describe it. People have written SO much. They ARE WRITING SO MUCH! All.the.time.

There's one woman who has a husband, two kids, two dogs and she's written two books in her spare time. Also ready to wrap up the third!! How does she even create spare time? I should adopt her as my Guru! Seriously.

And then there are folks who have scores of magazine articles to their credit and they say they are still 'trying to get somewhere.' Hmm... Others have been training people to write or collaborated on books with half-a-dozen others. The moderator churns out wonderful material for the front page at an amazing pace and it's all so readable.

Makes me feel quite inadequate. I know I shouldn't feel that way, because I am just finding my way back to the world of writing. And I certainly don't write for a living any more. (Sigh...it's like the ABBA folks said: Where are those happy days? They seem so hard to find.) But you know what, I just sneaked back and read some of my older blog posts and cringed. Physically cringed. What made me thing that was 'writing?' My apologies to those who were tortured by reading that stuff. *shudder*

I had half a mind to shut down this blog, actually delete it. But obviously I didn't. Simply becasue all those crappy sentences tell the story of the person that I had become. If they look messed up, its because I was messed up. I have no idea how I lived through those years. The posts chronicle the tale - nothing heroic - of my efforts to reclaim my life, to create a corner that is entirely my own. Behind the clumsy syntax, ill-chosen words and glaring grammatical errors was a woman who had decided to fight back. I don't claim to have found my way back. I'm still groping in the dark...but there seems to be a ray of light struggling to get through.

Of course, when I see the mom-of-two-kids-and-two-dogs, I still feel inadequate. But I know writing isn't about keeping up with the Joneses. And so, I take a deep breath and go back to writing some more. Because that's the only way I'll find my way out of this darkness.

ps: I'm still worried about the outcome of my son's eye exam on Monday, but I also realize there's little I can do to change anything. In the meantime, its Holi tomorrow - the festival of colors. And the kid wants to have a blast. So I've bought him a box of non-toxic, food-grade colors that he can play with. He's promised to wear glasses to avoid anything getting in his eyes.

Photo from Freerangestock.com

Pray for my son, please

I was at the kitchen door when I saw my son trying to pour out a glass of juice. He’d never done that before. So I grabbed my camera and clicked. He turned around and beamed. I took another picture. He ran over to see it, smiled, and left to watch TV. I looked at the photograph in the viewer and my heart sank. His right pupil was reflecting not a red eye, but a golden one – called a ‘tiger eye.’ It told me the leakage behind his retina had not been entirely absorbed. He would probably need some more treatment.

Everybody says my son has big, sparkling, laughing eyes. He also has Coats Disease in his right eye. Abnormal blood vessels form behind the retina and begin to leak. The cholesterol in the blood settles in the space behind the retina. When too much of this collects in one place, it can detach the retina, causing blindness. In rare cases, the eye has to be removed. Coats is rare, genetic, but not hereditary. The cause is unknown, but it usually affects only one eye.

The best thing is for the leakage to stop. He will need frequent eye check ups for the rest of his life. I am grateful it is nothing worse, but I worry. People have beaten Coats and in some cases, it has reversed itself. I want that for my son. I want him to be healthy and to beat this thing. But when such unexpected reminders pop up, I can hardly stave off the panic.

I need to call the doctor and fix an appointment for early next week. That's when we were asked to come. And while I know that he may need more laser - hopefully no more cryo - something inside me is trying to put off making that appointment. It's stupid of me because even if he does need laser, we'd like to finish it off as soon as possible so that he can recover and attend an arts camp starting the 8th of April.

Keeping my fingers crossed and praying that everything goes right.

Related Posts:
Why My Son Can't be a Pilot and May Never Ride a Roller Coaster
Thank you, Almighty
Scared of Scarring
Gray Spot Scare

I don't look like 'Mommy'...Hmmm...

I finally got my hair cut after months of trying to grow it out and not losing it all in the process. There was a minor hiccup at the salon. The woman who normally does my hair is no longer with the salon so I settled for a fellow who'd styled my unruly tresses for the company gala last month.

Problem is, my knowledge of spoken Kannada - the language spoken in Bangalore, where we live - is elementary. And the stylist spoke nothing else. Anyway, with some basic phrases and some gesticulating, I managed to convey that I wanted my hair cut in steps. The word 'layers' cropped up in his half of the conversation and I supposed that it meant the same thing. Towards the end, he said he was blowdrying it straight and that it wouldn't look nice if he curled it. I was game for that. At least my hair would look nice and different for a couple of days.

When he was done, my hair looked....well...hip, actually. I've never had a hip hairstyle in all my thirty-and-loose-change years! Not bad, I thought. It is feathered and of medium length. A wonderful change from insipid version of the same cut I've had since middle-school. Kind of like Posh Spice (cringe, cringe) in the front but not at the back.

DH liked it too. (I did not ask for an opinion. I've been married for almost ten years so I know better than to ASK for an opinion!) And then he asked the offspring: "Isn't Mamma's new haircut nice?"

The offspring lolled on the couch for a bit, observing silently. "Your hair looks very nice," he finally said, but the sentence was loaded. There was more to come. "But you don't look like Mamma."

Huh? Wait a minute, what does that mean? DH shrugged. I raised an eyebrow and the little rascal grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You hair is nice. But you look very fashionable." That's the exact word he used: 'fashionable.' My son knows words like 'fashionable.' He's six and he knows words like fashionable. Gulp.

"So is that good or bad?" I asked him.

"It's good for you. You'll look nice in the office. But you don't look like my Mamma." Direct, point-blank, no beating about the bush. A brave man, don't you think? Even if it was his mother and not his girlfriend he was talking to.

"Do you want me to change it?"I volunteered

"No. You look nice, Mamma. But not like my Mamma," he repeated.

Ah, I see. I was looking non-Mommy-ish. Not bad, I thought. I haven't looked like that since much before he was born. But then, mommy-guilt surfaced. And how. I was ready to find hairpins, hide the fashion and stick to the severe, 'able' look. Before the guilt could overwhelm me, the little tyke scooted over and gave me a hug. "I still love you," he announced.

Thanks, Munchkin. I needed that. :-)

Thank you, Vodafone

I'm still on my TV boycott, but when I was in the kitchen earlier today, I noticed that wonderful classic, Kabhi Kabhie (from a movie of the same name) feature in a commercial in different voices. It was being sung by ordinary folks who love the song, but cannot necessarily sing (myself included.)

I caught the commercial again later in the day and discovered that it was an ad for Vodafone's music services in India. The crux of it was, listen to more songs. Widen your horizons. Don't get hung up on one number your whole life.

As creativity goes, the makers of the ad were spot on. This song (since the movie came out way back in 1976) has been an all-time favourite. It's the kind of song that comes to mind in an antakshari with friends when anybody has to sing a song starting with the sound "K." It's the kind of song that is used by wannabe romeos to subtly romance a girl by making her feel special. It sometimes feels cheesy but it never fails to make the heart go all soft and mushy. That's the power of the poet Sahir Ludhianvi - he touches your heart with simple words. Add the haunting music of Khayyam to that and you have something immortal.

Back to the ad. I was upset that this particular song had been chosen to symbolize something old and worn out. Because it is may be old, but it certainly IS NOT worn out.

Anyway, this was my opinion and all I could do was rant about the injustice on my blog. Sigh. Until a few hours later... My six-year-old son was on the potty and singing the first line of this song, as featured in the commercial. (He usually has deep, philosophical questions to ask when he's carrying out this particular activity. Singing has usually never featured on the agenda.)

Suddenly he called out: "Mamma, what comes after the first line?"

"Where did you hear this?" I asked him.

"On the TV. Is there any more to sing?"

Oh, you bet there is, sweetheart. I put on the CD and let him listen to the whole thing. "I like this song," he said simply. "We'll listen to it again later."

Ha! Eat your heart out, Vodafone. Oh, and thank you for getting my son even more interested in Bollywood music at its best. :-)

Kabhi Kabhie Poster © Yash Raj Films, Directed by Yash Chopra
Rediff on the movie

Goodbye, my lost friend

Dear H,

I am writing to say goodbye to you. I should have done this a long time ago but a part of me was waiting for some kind of closure. Or perhaps a renewal of our friendship, although I admit that was being hugely optimistic.

We met as fellow outcasts in college, thrown together by our love of English literature and teenage troubles. We dressed differently from most of the others, too. Not to make a statement, but because that's the way we had always dressed. We loved to write, and to read, spending entire afternoons at the British Library. We also suffered at the hands of lecturers because we were the "Gulfie Girls" and that somehow implied a certain amount of snootiness, not to mention the petro-dollars. Laughable, wasn't it?

I was waiting for that three-year sentence to end so that I could get on with the rest of my life. You were angst-y, dealing with a whole lot of emotions every which way. I loved the rebel you were because I had never mustered the courage to execute a rebellion against the messy extended family I was thrown amidst. I loved the fact that you were 19 and trying to find yourself, when I was merely counting the days when my sentence would end and I could leave that awful place.

I loved the way you would launch into a song on the campus while others watched. Remember the time you really let loose when we were walking past the old auditorium. I was a little embarrassed at first, but when I looked around, people were enjoying your rendition of Saving all My Love for You. You were the proud - and probably the only - recipient of a standing ovation in those tree-lined pathways.

We made other friends, it was a comfortable group and I know that you and they were the people who made life possible to live from one day to the next. You were a brighter star on the radio - that clear, honey-dipped voice had many a fan on the airwaves. You were the one who came up with a deeper analysis of the literature when I was wondering if I should have majored in Economics (considering that a few of our professors insisted on explaining Keats, Arnold, and even Shakespeare in Malayalam, not English).

I could drop into your house on weekends and was grateful that your Mum would let me cook something I sorely missed at that lousy hostel I lived in. I loved that you called the maid your "mother's assistant." That you were angry at the fact that a woman could not walk in Trivandrum without fear of molestation after 7 pm, that you stabbed perverted bus conductors with your umbrella if they tried any hanky-panky, that you tried to make the most of that outdated coursework we had in the college, that you put life into some of those mindnumbing plays that we enacted.

And then, things changed. It was just two years, but how things changed. You had finally broken out and were free to live your own life. That idiot who ditched you to marry a girl chosen by his family might have been responsible in a way, but you were also enjoying your freedom. And that was great. I helped you with whatever you asked for. It wasn't much but it felt nice to be there for a friend.

After that course, you moved away to begin working in Delhi. Then you were engaged. I too moved to Delhi after I got married. We lived barely a few miles from each other and worked in the same office, and yet, I did not recognize you. Our wonderful P had died in that tragic accident and I knew little about the horrifying background that must have made life miserable for the both of you.

Still, I did not understand why you were cold shouldering me? Was it because we were working in the same office and I was hired one grade higher? I had more experience, so it wasn't unfair. But things only went downhill from there. You ignored me when you were with your new friends. Was I not cool enough? Or had I done something to upset you? You never told me. When you returned from your honeymoon, I never even got to see the wedding pictures until I asked to see them, whereas the rest of the office was invited to view the albums. Hmm...I got the message, but I didn't know what I had done, or not done to deserve that.

You and your husband had moved to the south. I had a baby and decided to quit working full time. You were the only one - yes, the only one - to never respond to the email in which we announced the birth of our son. And then I heard that you had commented that I would lose out on my career because I was taking a break. I also heard that you didn't want to have children because the world was going to the dogs and we didn't have much to offer to a new generation. That was so you. I always wondered why you had drifted away. I wrote to you a couple of years back but again, there was only silence.

Anyway, to cut a long story short. I didn't lose out on my career because I took a break. Instead, I learnt and did a whole lot more than I would have as a regular journalist. I'm back at full time work, my son is six years old and a perfect delight. I don't know what fate has in store for him. He has a rare eye condition that will need to be monitored his whole life. All I have to offer him is my love and my support.

I thought about you a few days back and noticed that something was different. That nagging feeling about why you drifted away did not haunt me any more. So although I might have liked for us to have had an open conversation a few years back, that is no longer the case. I have made peace with how things have turned out. This is my closure.

To quote the poet Richard Burton:
Friends of my youth, a last adieu!
Haply some day we meet again;
Yet ne'er the self-same men shall meet;
The years shall make us other men.

What's up, Bangalore?

Rage on the Road
It seems like the city is going through some rough times. While the brouhaha over the opening of the new international airport continues, I was saddened to see this story in the paper earlier today.

A man suffering from a cardiac condition died for no fault of his, except that his son - an autorickshaw driver - jumped a red light while trying to get his father to a hospital. And perhaps the fact that it was March, the month when policemen - especially traffic constables - have to clock up their annual quota of fines. This leads them to suddenly get all strict with drivers and riders alike, especially autorickshaw drivers.

True, autorickshaw drivers are notorious for the zig-zagging they carry out on our overcrowded roads. And I agree that the cop in question was doing his duty: the whole I-have-to-get-to-a-hospital-at-once story is often abused, but there are other things to bear in mind. For one, the city - like most of India - does not have a quick and reliable ambulance service. In an emergency, you simply cannot be sure if you will get the medical care you need. Besides, an ambulance trip - if the vehicle is not from one of the public hospitals - costs a small fortune that must have been beyond the means of the family in question.

So when the autorickshaw driver saw that his father needed urgent medical help, it made sense to use the vehicle he had to ensure he got to a hospital in time. Yes, his jumping a red light could have caused an accident, hurt others. Fortunately, in this case, it did not. Besides - and I know this is a terrible excuse, but it's true, so I'll say it - at any time during the morning and evening rush hours, you can find at least a dozen major intersections in the city where vehicles move without the aid of working traffic lights or a traffic policeman.

Besides, as one witness pointed out, common sense did not prevail. It was probably an ego thing. While autorickshaw drivers are no saints, the police are infamous for unduly harassing motorists, especially in March. The crowd that collected chased and beat up the policeman - again, a sad reflection of the state of the city - but sometimes, it's the only way the common man in this country gets to make a point. Uncivilized, yes, but inevitable.

Garbage, garbage, garbage
I was thinking about what the family must be going through when a normally not-crowded road seemed to be in the throes of a jam. A large garbage truck had parked itself on the wrong side of the road and not too near the pavement either. This took up half the space, bringing traffic to a virtual standstill - at 9 in the morning!

I must have been unusually observant this morning because 10 minutes later, I saw another garbage truck doing the same thing on a bigger road and at a blind curve! A little Maruti 800 just about missed driving headlong into the rickety monster and I wondered how long the drivers would fight and hold up traffic.

Safety First? What's that?
Just a couple of minutes later, I saw two little girls in school uniform sitting on a scooter behind a man I thought must be their dad. They were singing something, looking bright and happy on a Monday morning. I noticed that the man wore a helmet. The girls did not. Common enough, but still scary. A second later, I saw that he was holding a mobile phone in one hand, busy texting someone. His eyes were on the phone, NOT on the road!! He was controlling the scooter with one hand!! ONE HAND! Obviously, it was wobbling along. On a BUSY road. In the morning rush hour. I was sorely tempted to give the man a piece of my mind.

Yes, we are a poor country where two-wheelers are a cheap way to get around town, especially since Bangalore does not have an efficient public transport system. I hate the fellows who weave in and out of traffic on their 110cc bikes showing off their contempt for safety. Their high on testosterone and God knows what else. They're idiots too. But what do you do when a 40-something adult taking two little girls to school behaves so irresponsibly.

I'd have liked to see the traffic policeman at the junction reprimand this man. But no, the cop at the intersection that just came up was too busy on his walkie-talkie to take note of the moron on the scooter. Which is why I have a hard time swallowing the-cop-was-only-doing-his-duty reason given by the police department in the first story I mentioned.

For the record, you are not allowed to talk on a cellphone while riding or driving in Bangalore. I follow that rule. But I know that most two-wheeler riders stick their phone inside their helmets and take calls anyway. Drivers of cars use Bluetooth sets but frankly, can you hold a proper conversation while navigating the mindless rush of vehicles that is essentially traffic in Bangalore? I doubt it.

Don't get me wrong. I love this city. I chose it as home and I wouldn't leave it for all the riches in the world. And that's what makes me so mad. I want my city to improve. We can't call ourselves a global hub and still act like we live in a small town with just one main road. We need to grow up, fast. Politicians may not do much, but how many of us can say that we try to do our bit whenever we can for this city?

Seriously, what's up, Bangalore?

Mea Culpa: greed, misconceptions and then some

Yup, the last post on my kid's bottom received plenty of comments (relatively speaking, of course). Which means people actually read it :-P
So I decided to wait and see what more responses I got. Plain greed, I tell you. Mea Culpa.

I've also joined two writers networks online. One is a forum along the lines of Facebook and Orkut, but more focused. You get to talk to other writers about issues we all face. The person who started it is doing an excellent job of widening the network and including writers from across the professional spectrum.

The other is on Yahoo! Groups and involves getting critiqued by fellow writers, whom you have to critique in turn. It's purely non-fiction and I was reluctant to join. For one, I've hardly ever been a spontaneous writer. For another, I'm from India while this group is mostly made up of writers from North America. I wondered how I would bridge cultural boundaries because our environment makes up a good deal of what we write.

But you know what, I was wrong on both counts. Once I knew I HAD to make an x number of submissions a month, the ideas popped up on their own. What's more, my very first piece was about a really localized concept related to Bangalore. And I still got some good reviews. People took the time to read something they were surely unfamiliar with and wrote back with encouragement and honest feedback. Now where can you get that?

I've made two submissions so far, and I must admit it's been good. Plus, you get to read some really good pieces written by people like myself - writing on the side and hoping to do more with that writing - and critique that. I think the folks who started that group are nothing short of brilliant.

The work and home front have not been that great over the past 10 days. I was quite wound up last night. I feel better today and decided it was high time I updated my blog and got on with the rest of my life.