Bitter-sweet sixteen

***Wrote this in Fiji, posting upon return to Melbourne. Must try and blog more often!!!***

I am in Fiji as I write this, on the last day of our deferred honeymoon. I have been married over a year now, and it feels so normal to have a husband! “How’s married life?” is a question we get asked quite often, and “Great!” is the answer, of course, but more important to me is the fact that our “married life” is really no different to the life we had already begun together prior to tying the knot. In fact, in typical fashion, we decided to wed after we had established that marriage was not a big deal for either of us, i.e., we had nothing against it, yet it was not something that we felt would be the defining moment of our lives.

So here we are, 12 years after we first met, in year 2 of our “married life” and year 3 of our re-connection, enjoying each other (in oh so many ways!) and continuing to build our lives together… sharing the joys and angst of, amongst other things: house-hunting and subsequently settling into our new home; each other’s jobs or lack thereof; making career choices; the dysfunctional nature of each other’s families (ok, mostly mine!); planning mini-breaks and honeymoons and then of course actually going on these holidays.

In the 2 years since we met up on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, this (monkey) man has become my best friend, my confidant, the core of my “support system” who cheers me on and cheers me up unfailingly. And, much like Dada used to, such a long time ago, he believes in me (blindly, almost!) and most importantly, stands up for me. I am pretty fiercely independent, as is Russ, and am quite capable of fighting my own battles, but on the rare occasions that I need proof that I have someone in my corner, it is good to know I have that unique brand of unconditional support once again.

So, 16 years after losing Dada, I find myself able to enjoy a fun-filled holiday in the days leading up to his anniversary, knowing my husband will appreciate the occasional lows in my mood and help me deal with my unexpected fears, and try his best to understand them, even when I don’t quite comprehend them myself. Let me explain…

We were staying at the Novotel in Nadi for a couple of nights last week, before heading over to Viwa, a secluded island resort a 3-hour boat ride away from the mainland. On the 2^nd night, he fell ill. Probably food poisoning / indigestion brought on by a suspect guava, but whatever it was, this was the 3^rd time in a 6-week period that he had suffered from acute abdominal pain and vomiting, and I was furious with myself for not having brought along any medicine to relieve his pain. Like Dada, he is really quite amazing at handling his pain and discomfort, and does not complain much at all about his misery, nevertheless we struggled through the night with hardly any rest.

We had set our alarm for 6.45 am as we had arranged for a pick-up at 7.30 am, but we were already awake when the alarm rang. I wanted to cancel, or at least postpone the Viwa leg of our trip, not wanting to be so far away from medical assistance, and he was seriously considering it too, when he threw up one last time. Considering he had already purged most of the previous night’s meal from his system in previous bouts, he threw up mainly water this time. Quite natural (and he actually started feeling a lot better and after a hot shower decided that he was feeling well enough to go to Viwa), but seeing him retch, I suddenly had a vision of Dada not being able to keep down water…

So there I was, feeling worried, helpless, ever so guilty, and exhausted… on the bus to the marina, to my mortification, the tears started rolling and would not stop… and the poor chap who had spent the night in pain and was still in a lot of discomfort, held my hand and comforted me in silence. On the boat I felt a bit better and then explained that it was it not just about Dada… that I had suddenly been engulfed by an irrational fear of losing him, Russ, too… the parallels were just too much for my sleep-deprived mind… a holiday overseas at the end of May with someone so important to me; an illness starting out innocently enough; medical help not being easily available or the most reliable; and then the violent vomiting…

He assured me that he would not take any risks… that he was definitely feeling well enough for the trip, and agreed to tell me if there were any signs of worsening pain instead of ignoring them as is his wont, so that we could organize an immediate return to the mainland if required. Luckily, he improved steadily and within a couple of days the pain was gone completely and we thoroughly enjoyed our 5-day stay on the island without any major injuries or incident, although we were both carefully scrutinizing every scratch and cut on both our bodies for signs of infection (see Note at end of post), and checking the food for suspicious smells! Not totally unfounded, the watchfulness, as another honeymooning couple had food poisoning the night before we left the resort. Plus I have managed to twist my right ankle, so it is quite swollen and painful at the moment, and Russ is recovering from a cold, but all in all, we are in good shape.

But bloody hell, the invisible scars we carry are the worst, as I have just re-discovered. I absolutely refuse to live my life being constantly paranoid about the well-being of the people I love, but this time (for a couple of days there) no amount of mental “shush”-ing from the sensible part of my brain could quell those annoying, irrational fears that the emotional, mush-ridden part kept conjuring up. Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay for love, I guess it is a small one and worth it… well, as long as it is kept in check as much as possible!

Note: My dad recently had Cellulitis, which is a bacterial infection of connective tissue leading to severe skin inflammation, and can apparently develop into sepsis if it goes untreated. It usually occurs where the skin has previously been broken, such as cuts, insect bites etc. He was quite unwell for a couple of weeks but luckily the doctor had diagnosed the condition early on and started him on a course of antibiotics, so he’s okay now.

P.S.: Over the years I have had many arguments with my parents, trying to convince them to move back to India where medical resources and help from family and friends is more readily available and where I can get to them easily in case of emergencies. Failing at that, I had fights with them about the importance of medical insurance… there was a long period of time where they had none, and in particular had no emergency evacuation facility in place. Finally I gave up, deciding that they were responsible for looking after themselves in the way they chose to.

And they do have their own support system there… a number of the doctors in Beira are their friends, so they make house calls, and genuinely care about their well-being as was evidenced when Baba had Cellulitis, and even when Ma had her accident. So, although I used to get agitated about the fact that Dada was sick there and was perhaps not helped in time, I do less of that now, accepting that it is their choice to live where they do.

My Aditya, My Son, My Sun

Tch, tch, Lalita! This seems to have become an occasional thing!

And I don't mean 'occasional' as in once in a while, but 'occasional' as in I seem to come back to it only to commemorate an event.

And the event this time is the birth of my first-born, my son, Aditya, my sun for 20 brief years.

This is his 13th birthday since his death in 1994 and, wherever he is, he will be 34 years old tomorrow.

The Title and Label for this post may seem a trifle dramatic, but don't worry, the post is not going to be of that tone. And that's another reason why I mean to keep it short.....

A mother from The Compassionate Friends wrote,

"It was from his death that I learnt to look at Death and not be afraid, and from what I have learnt about myself, and in the light of my new philosophies, I have looked again at myself then and now.

Yes, it is true that we can never be “the same” again. If we were not to change and grow, it would be as if that death has not had meaning in our lives." ....Betty Wainer

On this the eve of his 34th birthday, I stop to ask myself if I have changed - and, if at all I have, in what way. In all outward respects, I seem to be the same. I still nag my Arup and I still react strongly (and HOW!) to things - and people! - I do not like. I still love teaching. I still speak out when I think something is wrong and / or unjust. ... The more material? I still don't like shopping or cooking and I still pamper myself with beauty creams and stuff. I've out grown my shoes and bag fetish, but that's because of age and, ahem, maturity.

So what has changed?

• I think I am actually more mature, in a real, deep way.
• I am still outspoken, but am more picky as to which issue is worth speaking out about.
• This might seem contradictory, but I am less tolerant of nonsense than ever before. I might not speak out or rave and rant about it the way I used to, but just turn away from it.
• Again paradoxically, my patience seems to have increased immensely. I might not understand why something is happening or why someone is doing what (s)he does, but I do go along with it and try to understand it.
• I am definitely more compassionate, more understanding of others' problems, especially if I see them as genuine, even if unreasonable to me.
• Also, I am more willing to help others than before, almost but not quite rivalling my darling mia-ji.
• Time is not so important to me now. Things will happen if they are to happen, when they are to happen.
• I care less than ever what people (with the sole exception of Mini and Arup) think of me or of what I do or how I look.
• I can't say I have become any more religious minded than I was before, but I do believe more than ever that there is some power that controls us and that our destiny is pre-written for us.
• I am more consiously appreciative of my Mini than ever before. I think I can say that I appreciate a mother’s love for her child more than anyone else. That does not mean that I love my children more than any other mother, but that, having experienced the full cycle of my child’s life, from the joy of his birth and life to the devastation of his death, I am more aware of that love, because of my loss. For is it not a fact that we do not appreciate anything or anybody fully until we have lost it/them?
• Indeed, I am more consciously appreciative of all our children. I see a little bit of Bozo in them all, more especially in my nieces and nephews but also in all our children of Chetla Gaach Tola - actually, in all the young people I have met and loved (thinking of you here, Craigee!). But above all, I love them most for just being there, giving us joy in their happiness and their well-being.
• I believe in the after-life. I have to, for that is the only way I can bear my loss. I will see my Bozo again.
• And no, I do not fear Death. To die is not such a terrible thing.

Randomly put, those are a few of the things I think I see. I'm sure - I know I have changed in a myriad of other tiny ways. If I were to dwell on it some more, I'm sure I'd find and be able to pinpoint many and Mini and Arup would be able to point some out too.

I have not made a conscious attempt to change and had not realized I had until I stopped to think about it just now. Furthermore, it is not for me to say if I have changed for the better or worse!

But I'll go ahead and say it - while I don't think I was a complete b**** before, I know that Bozo's going has really made me a better person. And now that I have dwelled on't, this is to be my New Year's Resolution. I shall try not to break it like I have all my other ones ......

Oops, I've said it publicly!

So Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Now what?

So I 've spent the last week or so trying to figure out whether this blog is a good idea or not. This is of course ridiculous, and I do realise that... I finally make a decision to do something I've been wanting to do for a while and then I agonise over whether I should have started it or not. Writing the first post was an interesting experience. It felt good writing about Dada, but I also spent the next week on the verge of tears, which is not a state I am fond of. I also wondered whether this blog defeated the purpose of my telling people I am an only child (I mean, I really don't want people reading it and thinking, "Oh poor thing"), but then again it's not supposed to be about me anyway, is it, nor is it really designed for people who don't know about him (ironically, the first 3 people I did send the link out to never did get to meet him, although I wish they had)... so maybe I should just quit being so self-centred and just send out the link to people so that they can start contributing if they so wish. So yes, the blog stays on. I also know that the first post was fairly intense and a little sad, and while I hope that that does not get to be the general tone of the blog, I have decided it is ok if some posts do get a bit low. Nothing wrong with that. Or so I think. For now.

Why now?

This blog has been a long time coming... my brother, my Dada, would be (is?) almost 34 now... and I have been wanting to write about him for a while now, but unlike my far more talented parents and cousins, I am not good at this. This blog, I think, will take the pressure off me though, because it won't be "my" blog... with some help from family and friends, I hope it will be a forum where people who knew Aditya (Bozo) will talk/write about him, share their memories of him, good, bad, funny... and even if not many people come across it, I want to be able to just put down my thoughts, about life with him, life without him... I want to be able to remember him, however corny that may sound.

Why now? I decided to finally stop procrastinating, as simple as that, I guess. It's been almost 13 years now, and I have moved around so much I hardly ever meet (nor am I in touch with) people who knew him too, apart from family of course. And even rarer are the occasions when a bunch of us (family or friends) are together and actually talk about him. Which is fair enough of course, it has been 13 years after all, and to be honest I rarely think about talking about him myself.

In fact, hardly any of my friends/colleagues here even know I had a brother. And that is because of the conscious choice I make when asked the usual "do you have any siblings" question, in order to avoid the awkward silences and the obvious discomfort caused by the "whole" truth. And I am fine with the simple "no" that I respond with, except that I cannot help but cringe everytime I get the inevitable "you must have been spoilt being an only child" comments. I bite my tongue though, and let them pass, sometimes with a "hah, you didn't know my mother!" (no, not really, Ma, I just think it ;-))

But then there are times when you do want to talk about him, this incredibly smart and funny clown of a brother that you had, who loved you completely and unconditionally, who could be overly protective but was always unduly proud of your smallest of achievements, who just died without any warning before his 21st birthday and what do you do then? And then of course there are times that you want to talk TO him and those just catch you completely unawares and what do you do then? Well apparently after 13 years, you start a blog :-)

Enough of this mushy business... let's get this blog started.