OH! TO BE A GRAND-MA

 

Oh! To be a Grand-Ma.

My grand-daughter turns 5 in a few months. The last five years have been something of a dream that I could never have dreamt of. Of all the phases of life, it’s amazing how this one phase topples your entire being upside down, filling your heart with a feeling you have never felt in the entire life gone by, heard of or read about.

A couple of decades back I wrote a fiction book on the life and struggles of a fictional female surgeon in the world of surgery dominated by men, during the eighties and nineties. It was titled, ‘Oh! To be a lady surgeon’.

The story I now write is a real life, non-fiction, about a non-fictional real character (read: me). The story has a similar sounding title, but the decades gone by have added the grey in the hair and the calcium in the heart vessels and changed the status of the character from ‘surgeon’ to ‘grand-ma’.

It was in 2021 on that gorgeous humid morning in July when the rains had taken a break and the moisture in the air had come back with a vengeance that the world decided to change my character.

A tormenting previous night of labour pains through which I held my daughter’s hand as she writhed in pain, one wave after another, only making her aware of what was to come, without a logical conclusion. Finally, the decision to put her on the operating table was taken.

 The time I spent staring at the operation theatre door, felt endless, tormenting and excruciatingly slow, reminding me of the countless relatives who wait for me to open the door and give them the news of the surgery that I have just finished and how their loved one was holding. Suddenly it was me who was sitting out, waiting for the surgeon to pop out.

The wait here was exciting but so was the stress of my daughter going under the knife!  After what seemed the longest wait ever, the guardian angel, my daughter’s obstetrician popped out of that magical door with a beaming smile to declare that I had become a grand-mom of a baby-girl!

Oh! to be a Grand-Ma.

Lot of people talk of life changing moments. For some, a discourse by a seer, for some, an unexpected event, and for some a book of philosophy. For me it was the birth of my grand-daughter that changed me inside out. Holding her tentatively (I had not held a baby since my kids grew old enough to be held by hands) the pink mass of softest cotton wool, my hands trembled ever so slightly but it was my heart that bounced loudly in my chest, threatening to burst with untold unexplainable joy. It was with utter wonderment that I looked at that tiny mass, hardly two and a half kilo weight with exquisite features formed over a round pink face, eyes that barely opened into slits, a tiny nose over arched lips that were still a little less pink as she continued to take in oxygen, an exercise she was unaccustomed to for the last nine months, a slender neck, long beautiful fingers on slender hands and legs that perfectly added to her beauty.

I was mesmerised.

 How could one be so perfect! God had taken all the time in the world, precisely nine months and a few days to chisel the beauty that was sleeping peacefully in the cradle of my hands.

It was not really sinking that I had now entered the ‘mother’s mother’ club. All I could think was how beautiful she was. Moments later, I regained my composure, my legs felt a less trembly, my heart raced but less than before, the tears in my eyes slowed down and I could quietly settle down to looking at her all over again………..and again ……………and again. A cursory look at my daughter, a relief for her stable health and I went back to staring at this little one, eyes closed one moment and then suddenly the loud bawl!

I panicked. My daughter was still under the daze of the anaesthetic drug and here she was, loudly declaring her hunger.  I remembered my grand-mother  telling me that crying is a good sign and the baby’s lungs expand to accommodate more oxygen. But that was when I was not a grand-ma, who was now shaking like a leaf, scared for the new born and worried when my daughter would be able to feed her baby. This was to be the standard reaction for the next few months. Each time she bawled, not cried, I went into a hyper-drive mode, wondering if she was hungry or had a colic or an insect bite or ………any of the hundred other medical causes that clouded my brain while my daughter silently cajoled her, fed her and put her to sleep. I looked at myself with wonderment, trying to understand if I was the same person who wielded the scalpel in the operation theatre with a calm, unwavering hand!

Oh! To be a Grand- ma!

Taking her to the paediatrician was a totally stressful event for me. The vaccines, the prick, the pain, the fever that would follow and the sleepless nights of heart-ache to see her crying through the night and my daughter exhausted with lack of sleep and the stress of tending to the baby, were the difficult moments of her growing up.

Needless to say, the most precious, unforgettable moments were her first smile, her first gurgle, the first time she turned on one side and the first time she held her neck. Every new step in her growing up gave me a deep sweetness in the pit of my stomach, as my heart was already full with the joys of seeing her grow each day, achieve each mile-stone.

Holding her close to my heart, carrying her in the cradle of my hands, changing her soiled diapers, washing her tiny soft clothes and holding them close to my face for her fragrance, neatly arranging her tiny bed, making baby food while my daughter healed and grew as a new mother were the jobs that I wore proudly on my sleeve! Singing to her the lullaby’s I could remember, making up small nursery rhymes and telling her stories she didn’t even understand as I put her to sleep were momentous achievements that were not even close to all my academic and past glories.  

Time flies and flies so fast!

 She sprouted her first tooth, took her first step and said her first word. Each step a divine moment, each moment a new treasure, each treasure that enriched my life beyond words.

Being utterly house-proud, I wonder how benevolent I had become for all the glass artifacts she broke in my house, for all the scribblings she did with permanent ink markers on the walls, for all the neat and tidy rooms that resembled a tornado after she came and went, for all the trashy food and chocolates she wanted, for all the toys and the cookery sets she demanded at any random time, for the sudden demands to be taken to a garden and the a sudden change of mind to go back home, and for the ‘nays’ that she said for something I had prepared because she likes. 

Time for nursey school and my heart sank. Why does she have to go out in the world. Why does she have to get exposed to pollution and noise, why does she have to leave the comfort of her home, even for two hours at that. The ‘Why ‘s’” didn’t stop just as my illogical thoughts that only a grand-mom has, didn’t stop.

Oh! To be a grand-ma.

Thankfully my daughter was the responsible parent and the little one started her journey of alphabets and numbers, rhymes and games, friends and sleep-overs.

My interference and interaction has slowed down as she has got busy with her life, but what has sustained me as I walk through the difficult process of growing old are her hugs, her small demands for pampering, the secrets that we share ( she later on secretly spills them in her mom’s ears), the garden trips where she learns a trick or two on the jungle gym causing me minor heart attacks, her beaming smile when she sees me and comes running into my arms, her curious observations and her need to know every detail of what she finds different, her growing vocabulary and her tantrums.

Each time I roam through shopping malls, all I can buy is those tiny dresses and frocks thinking of her beaming smile when she sees her gifts. Most of my evening outings have now been replaced by time playing her nanny and baby-sitter, with joy and pride of course.

It’s not every day that I see her grow now, most weekends she has her friends and outings with her parents, but just to see her face on the facetime call is enough to give me my daily dose of happiness.

My daughter complains that I am foolishly pampering her and have conveniently forgotten my own children.

My son feels I don’t have time to talk to him anymore

My friends complain that I skip their get-togethers and parties.

My husband feels I am obsessed.

Well, as I say,

Oh! to be a grand-ma!

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

THE DOCTOR AS THE PATIENT- TO BE OR NOT BE PATIENT!

 THE DOCTOR AS THE PATIENT- TO BE OR NOT BE PATIENT!

(A true account of what goes on in the mind of a doctor when the doctor becomes the patient and what actually happens))

This is the story of what happens when tables turn and the doctor becomes the patient!

Returning from a quiet dinner all alone, which I thoroughly enjoyed, (the loneliness, I mean), I was silently listening to the melodious voice of the Nightingale of India, walking on the darkened road in the campus where I worked. 

Life seemed bliss.

Till a small bunch of pebbles decided to turn me and my life upside down. In cahoots with my brand-new platform sandals, the pebbles brought me down in one swift motion, twisting my right ankle, throwing my hands in the air making me land full weight on my delicate (read-old) right knee. A loud crackling sound and a pain that sheared through my body like thousand volts, I collapsed on the rough ground, screaming in agony, calling for help and trying to find out by a quick clinical examination if I had broken my knee (the doctor in me) all at the same time. 

After a few excruciating moments, and clinical confirmation that the knee cap had indeed been broken into pieces, I allowed myself to be lifted onto a passing vehicle and be taken to the casualty where I declared ( through tears and grimaces) to the Orthopedic surgeon that I had a fracture patella, (knee-cap) and it needs to be fixed, much to the consternation of the specialist, but like all good husbands ( indeed I have married an Orthopedic surgeon, decades ago), he kept a calm demeanour and continued to order the management protocols.

Am I going to sit in the wheel chair? Hell, no! (Mind talk)

I thought angrily as my post-graduate students gently lifted me on to the wheel chair and pushed it to the waiting casualty bed.

No way I am going to lie on the bed meant for accident patients whom I see in emergencies and treat! (Mind talk)

I was lifted by a couple of orderlies and put on the metal bed with a hard mattress and a stone hard pillow, unaware of the bile rising in my mouth of anger, frustration and above all, helplessness. Isn’t it here that I stand and pass orders, follow protocols, scold the students for not doing their job correctly and walk away to another waiting bed? Isn’t it here that the staff on duty run behind me following my orders for quick management of emergencies? Isn’t it here that eager learners catch every word, rather every pearl of wisdom I drop while treating a patient? I looked around through tears of pain and anger only to see that world went around silently, doing their job, shouting orders, managing serious patients, attending emergency situations, and only occasionally stopping by my bed to record my pulse and blood pressure.

No way I will be lifted on to the stretcher to be taken to the radiology. No way this is happening to me. (Mind talk)

The stretcher ride was bumpy, steely hard and I shouted in pain as the technician gently changed the position of the knee to confirm my fears. The knee cap had indeed broken into multiple pieces.

Why are you asking me so many questions? I am in pain. Is this the time? You are not following the history -taking protocol (Mind talk)

The questions about my health, my fall and my medications started coming in succession as the junior doctor began the admission process. He is missing some points in the patient history, the teacher in me thought. Should  I correct him? A silent nod, a few answers, thank-you  Mam, and I was given the band on my wrist that said, patient for surgery!

I don’t think I should take spinal anaesthesia, just a jab of the general anaesthetic through my vein and life gets simpler. (Mind talk)

I sat silently in the position given by the chief anaesthetist and waited patiently for the needle to prick my back for the spinal anaesthesia. Thankfully the rest was a total blur and no more opinions flooded my mind till I was made to lie flat.

I will not go under the knife! As a surgeon, I always stand on the right side of the operation table and wield the scalpel.  I am sure there could be a way out of this. (Mind talk)

The Operation-table was warm, the over-head lights bright, and the gentle hushed voices of the surgeons, staff nurses and technicians was all I remember before finding myself a few hours later on the patient bed in a beautiful room with flowers and a television.

No, not that antibiotic and that pain killer. What is its microbial cover? Check the expiry date of the medicine, is the syringe just opened from its pack, has it been diluted correctly, is it going to be given slowly?????  (Mind talk)

I looked through hazy eyes as the nurse filled the antibiotic syringe and without a word, pumped the fluid into my vein, locked the tube, collected her things and walked out with a smile.

I will be fine! I know exactly how a body responds to trauma and heals.  (Mind talk)

It was when I took my first step on the walker, that I realised I was truly handicapped for that time. I needed support, I needed help and most importantly, I needed guidance from the experts to learn how to walk all over again. I needed to know when I will be back to normal again. Questions whose answers I did not know, even as a doctor myself.

I needed to surrender to the reality that I was a patient.

I needed to step out of my identity and assume the new one of being on the other side of the consulting table.

It was a difficult time but the challenge was to be a patient, patiently and wholeheartedly. It was the acceptance that however trained you are to save a life or cure a disease, there are aspects of the human body that you can never understand till you become a patient. There are experts in each fields who know the nitty gritty of that disease and must be listened to.

It is the basic tenet of healing, of the mind and the body, that one must surrender completely, walk out of the skin one is wearing and allow the healer to help one heal.

As a patient it is necessary to let go of the aura one develops as a doctor about knowledge of the body and one’s control over its functioning.

Doctors are cursed, they say! Now I know why.

Doctors make bad patients, they say! Now I know why.

But it’s never too late to learn and I learnt my lesson well.

I am well on my way to complete recovery now.

Dear Doctors, stay healthy!

But for those who may become patients, I wonder if you will learn your lesson the hard way or accept that it is in our interest to be ‘to be’ and not ‘not to be’ a good patient!

Here’s wishing everyone a great health.

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

 

 

 

HIRAETH

 

HIRAETH ( hi.rai.th)

NOUN    ---   A deep wistful longing for the home you can’t return to or that never was.

 

A long searing pain cut my heart as I read this word, letting out bleeding memories, nostalgic times and years of growing up, flooding my conscience with images of the stone structure that was home, the staircases, the halls, the many rooms, gardens, tall trees and the forever alive kitchen which was the heart of that structure. 

Where was all this, I wonder!

Beyond the blurred eyes all I can manage to see is a huge sprawling 2 storied structure, hidden behind tall Ashoka, purple and yellow jacaranda and jamun trees, fragrant night blooming jasmine (raatrani), green and golden frangipani (chafa), and the delicately pretty bakul tree. The rest of the plot was full of potted plants with leaves that shone red and yellow and a thousand shades of green. An occasional shrub of jasmine or jui laden with flowers that shimmered like stars on a starry clear night and wafted with fragrance that pleased the senses and warmed the heart. A red rose here, a pink one there and a yellow to brighten the day. Unfailingly, the most pious of all, the red hibiscus meant solely for Vignaharta who stood holding the house strong and protected, was flowering bright and cheerful near the side staircase of the house meant for a discrete entry, back door but not exactly back door as it was on one side but functioned as a back door, especially when one wanted to sneak in without being admonished. 

The rest of the area around the bungalow had a narrow cement walkway lined by pots with multi-coloured flowering plants and unnamed leafy plants all behind a brick line placed obliquely to give that serrated margin to the walkway.

The concept of bungalow was never in the architect’s head and so it was built into a huge rectangular two storied cement and glass structure in the center of the plot, but made beautiful by the trees and plants that enveloped it in their shade.

The ground floor was dedicated to the hospital that was the temple where my parents worked. It was the era where most doctors lived in the same building as their hospital so that they could be near to their patients who depended on them for life! A concept that has died long ago and still tugs at my heart with pain. Imagine, as a suffering being, you get treated in the place where your doctor is forever available, never ever leaves your side and looks after you at any time of the day or night, must have been such a huge part of the trust and hope that one comes with for delivering one out of the physical and mental misery.

 

For the family growing in that home that stood on the first floor, it was difficult to fathom why the parents worked odd hours, long hours, came home happy, sometimes came home sad and defeated, but came home to a comfortable life!

Ahhhhh, the first floor. Home is where the heart is, they say.

A multitude of rooms, two large spaces (halls) that entertained visitors, relatives, friends, extended families and occasionally doubled up as a place where accomplished vocalists mesmerized a small elite gathering of music aficionados till wee hours of the morning, the smell of cardamom laced coffee wafting through the night with jasmine and roses adding to the ethereal experience.

A posse of live-in servants moved seamlessly keeping each corner of the house clean and shining while a matronly lady ran the kitchen with a precision of a corporate honcho. My mother had given up on this activity, for obvious reasons though!

Kitchen- where do I even begin! The smell of hot flat breads, the alarms from the pressure cooker signaling the comfort of rice and dal and the sizzle of the seasoning with mustard seeds and cumin spluttering in ecstasy, the curry leaves making their presence felt and the various vegetables that simmered in taste that still evokes memories of the theatre that was the kitchen. This routine occasionally cut by the smells of sweets, fried puris, and special festive food.

It was not just the daily kneading, frying, cooking, simmering, seasoning but come summer, the kitchen doubled up as a place for making tons of heady raw mango, lemon and chilly pickles to be stored carefully in huge ceramic jars for the yearly consumption. The amount would boggle the mind but every year the ceramic jars seemed to be emptying faster than the year that went by. Needless to say, the kitchen master, our matronly lady gathered her cronies for cutting, chopping and mixing the fruit before submerging it in tons of seasoned oil and of course, for the juicy gossip spoken in hushed tones, clamping up whenever the kids rushed in for a glass of water or a bite of laddoos. 

The love and warmth of the home slowly entered that corner of the heart through these smells and sounds and stayed where nothing could erase it. It became an irreplaceable memory 

The house bustled with people, visitors who dropped in for a chat, cousins who wanted some advice and good food, friends who bonded over whiskey and cricket commentary. The dining table was a round table conference presided by the Monarch and his queen, with eager, ‘green behind the ears’ budding doctors such as me, my siblings and cousins, listening intently, on patient histories, treatment modalities, newer advances in medicine, miracle stories that warmed the heart, defeats that teared the eyes, and life’s lessons that would see us through ups and downs, yet unknown to us, but being prepared for the life to come.

There were arguments, heated discussions, illnesses, and unifying festivals celebrated in all their glory. There were angry outbursts, tears, failures, heart breaks just as there were celebrations for birthdays, academic achievements, ranks, medals and successes. There was the pampering of childhood just as there was the admonishment of being the irresponsible adult. Life was full and growing in the place we called home.

Time and age wait for none.

Reminiscent of the song by Sahir Ludhiyanvi- ‘sabhi bichhade bari bari’, one by one each one of us flew out of our comfort zone to create the life we were being prepared for. In the initial period, vacations and the unmissable Diwali was where home was. As life took us further, vacations no longer existed, Diwali was difficult to make it to home and a weekend here and there was all that was left for what was home.

Time is ruthless and relentless. 

Parents walked slower, patients went to younger doctors with smarter demeanors and posh clinics, the hospital had now become a ghost of itself, visitors came down to a trickle, relatives gradually disappeared into their own world as theirs grew, and friends slowly faded behind the curtain of time.

The health and age took its toll and the beautiful rock-solid bungalow could no longer hold on its own. The chatter had died down; the gossiping coterie could barely hear their own voice and the ageing Monarch and his queen shifted out into a more manageable tiny home with lesser people to deal with. Ageing gracefully, yet painfully lonely, finally fading into the sunset with dignity and a full life. 

The new owner shared no bond with the building and it crashed into a gigantic heap of twisted steel and cement dust.

A new shiny tower rose where lay buried my “HIRAETH”

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

 

IS AGE JUST A NUMBER?

Age is just a number. Have heard that million times even as my age raced ahead adding to the numbers with every passing day, month and year. I was almost thrown into the lull of the words of that powerful sentence, merrily ignoring the time that signalled me to slow down. I am young at heart and age is just a number. Or so I believed.

Little did I realise that my body however, was vigilant to the passing time. With each tick of the clock-hands, the cells of my body started their journey towards slowing down to a lesser speed than what they were used to for so many decades. Mind you, I was not exactly unaware but chose to ignore their apathy at not keeping up with me. My body too was very benevolently accepting my forced enthusiasm and energy to live life to the fullest.

 It never dulled my thought process or my ability to rush into the wind and get going. All I kept thinking was, am I really that old, is that really my age, was I really born in that long-gone decade?????? For age was just a number!

And then slowly and steadily creeped in the signs on feet of clouds, noiselessly breaking into the barrier I thought I had created, making their presence felt through the little and the big things. The alarm bells rung and the time machine smiled.

A sign here and a sign there.

An insignificant ‘cold’ that refused to go even when the proverbial week was up, gradually turning into an incessant cough that kept me awake at night and angry during the day. A ‘cold’ I had ignored and gotten over fast in the past as just a minor hiccough became a rowdy companion of weeks giving me sleepless nights and emptying my shallow pockets for antibiotics and a host of other medications that complicated this simpleton of a cold. You are getting old my dear, said someone older than me.

The annual blood reports that came back without a red mark all these years unexpectedly started coming back with a red line here and a red line there. My rank was threatened and the culprit was age. My penchant for all things sweet was driven rudely into the ground as the sugar levels shot up. I knew my inheritance, but not so soon or so I thought. There it was, the legacy of my father. The gift of high sugar had come home to roost and it was now time to move into the community of senior citizens, the men and women with hypertension, arthritis, cataract and diabetes.

The thick mane of brown hair I flaunted on my head was another of my inheritance. Envied by a lot of friends, I secretly felt proud that I had such thick and brown hair with a sparse sprinkling of grey that came home few years back. With utter disregard for the harm that age causes, I realised the assault of age when the clips started slipping off and the hair line got a prominence more than it deserved. I woke up to the reality that the signs were there to stay. Age had challenged the sheer vanity of my feminism.

The mirror is yet another story. Not that it was great before, but youth and middle age certainly blended smoothly to keep the face fresh and moderately okay. The two small worry lines on the forehead remained quiescent even in the face of extreme worry of career, parenting and building a life, belying the inner turmoil of the thirties to the fifties. As I looked into the mirror now, it occurred to me that the worry lines had given up on their ability to hide and now were fully evident making me look worried even as I tried to smile. There were some more lines gradually creeping over the cheek that had lost their strength and were slowly sagging down, fluttering the red flag. The dark circles under the eyes that never bothered me suddenly decided to make their presence felt and the crow feet got more feet than wings and firmly planted themselves around my eyes.

“Haven’t seen you around for some time?” said my regular grocer and I sheepishly smiled back, unable to tell her that every evening after I returned home from work, I slumped like a rag doll unable to bring myself to catching hold of all my shopping bags to buy things I hardly needed and while away precious time and money on my favorite store for things I didn’t need. It felt unreal at first. What had gone wrong, I thought. Shopping could not lure me out of my house was something unimaginable and unbelievable a few years back.

And now all I wanted was to stay indoors and prep myself for the next day. When Amazon gave me all that I needed for that dopamine rush at the click of a button, I was done. Weekends saw me saying a repetitive no to party invitations and outings, things I loved to do all these years. The friends, the laughter, wine and food that beckoned me, suddenly felt like a weight on the tired shoulders. I longed for quiet Saturday nights with candles, music, a glass of wine and my favorite companion by my side.

 Surprisingly, work was the only temptation that kept me waiting for the day to begin when I would happily throw myself into the hectic schedule only to return home slumped. The culprit was right there, engulfing me as I fought to surrender to its strength. Adrenaline and passion helped me see through the demands of work but the evenings were now just about a cup of coffee and feet resting on the table till it was time for dinner.

Food and me have been good acquaintances and a few decades ago I did enjoy street food or the ever so tempting fried delicacies. The red or yellow gravy interspersed with the white of the paneer or topped with the red chilly oil with the naan drenched in butter gave me weak knees.  The smell of tamarind and jaggery and the green mint chutney in crisp fried puris threw all my hygiene caution to the wind as I indulged in one blessed puri after other. The thumping sound of ladle on the huge pan as it smashed the boiled potatoes to make that delicacy called pav-bhaji pulled me with a magnetic force that was irresistible

But that soon became history. Slowly I realised that all the pull of smells and sights left me with heartburn and loss of sleep if I swallowed even a morsel of more than what my ageing stomach could tolerate. All the food I loved gradually became a part of the reels on Instagram that could only be devoured by the eye. And……. I knew age had creeped into my heart through my stomach.

It was also a gradual realisation that ageing is not just about the body and the mind. It’s also about getting isolated and lonely from the young ones who surrounded you with their chatter, gossip, mundane stories, demands, and heartaches. As their wings get stronger, your feet start getting wobbly. As their dreams soar, your insomnia becomes habitual, nightmares curl you up in tight hugs and nights get lengthier. Finding myself cleaning empty rooms that were once hotbeds of dirty clothes, torn papers, books, toys, Bluetooth speakers strewn all over and now sparkling clean for lack of human existence made me realise that the wheel that was going up has now slowed, is creaking under the weight of age and is slowly sagging down. 

The phone calls which I make get the standard message, busy right now, will call you later. And I know they are seriously busy trying to make a life, struggling to meet deadlines and breaking backs to achieve success. Just as I did till age hit me. Silently, age has taken me away from the mainstream and placed me on the service road where speed limits are way below the fast pace that is life. 

They grow, they soar and they fly, you walk towards with hypertension, diabetes, creaking knees and loneliness.

Time and tide wait for none. But Father Time can be benevolent. I have more blessings than I can remember to count. I still have enough precious time that will see me through, I have countless people that may not immediately pick up my call but will call me back nonetheless.

Age, I realised is not just a number. It is as much a shrinkage of telomeres as it is about loneliness, solitude and acceptance with grace and humility of how it carries you with it.

Graceful ageing is what it is.

Numbers are relevant, yet irrelevant.

That’s it!

 

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

 

 

 

 

DOES SADNESS REALLY FLY AWAY

 

DOES SADNESS REALLY FLY AWAY

Sadness flies away on the wings of time- Jean De la Fontaine

I came across this sentence a few days back. It really intrigued me. It was sending hope yet I knew of situations that saddened the heart irrespective of time. It was full of positivity, yet I had experienced the negativity of sad situations again and again, irrespective of time. I wondered if sadness really flew away on the wings of time.

I had always felt that time just blunts the cutting edge of sadness and replaces intense pain with bearable pain. It never flies away, always leaving your heart with that deep heaviness where sadness sits on heavy bottoms, moving just ever so slightly to allow a trickle of happiness to jostle for space in an already overcrowded heart.

 There are sad moments that disturb us and there are sad events that destroy us. The sad moments remain floating and their lightness gives them the effortless ability to fly away from our hearts with time. It is the sad events in our life that settle down in the deep recesses of our heart, never to leave. It’s crucial to understand the difference to lead a life of acceptance of the burden of sadness.

Losing a dear one or a young member of the family suddenly is always devastating. In a split second it uproots the entire family tearing the fabric to shreds. It’s not just the suddenness of loss, it’s also about the inability to comprehend the future. Life stops acutely and the wheels running smoothly brake with a deafening sound that tears the ear drums causing a deathly silence of that dark event. The vision is clouded and the mind gets numbed beyond words. You walk in a daze unable to make sense of anything that formed your routine. Is it easy for this extremely devastating sadness to ever fly away?

Experts working on grief and bereavement have analyzed the grief and bereavement period classifying it into four stages. The last stage is about acceptance. Eventually after going through the phases of disbelief, anger and guilt of having lost the loved one, the person begins to accept the situation. Time is the greatest healer they say. With time, the intensity of sadness starts to blunt on its edges and the jagged margins of memories hurt less than before. Time and acceptance help to look at the memories of the lost one with a new vision. Eyes blur less and heart cries a little less. Physical expression of hurt lessens and an occasional smile replaces the memory.

All this happens over decades and that one life we have gets scarred with deep sadness. Many of those who are left behind lose a lifetime in coming to terms with the reality that just swept them away from a normal life. Sadness takes a real long time to get washed away and, in this situation, it also leaves behind imprints that are hard to clean.

Extreme sadness can come knocking in many other forms and shapes. Sadness that destroys the fabric of our lives and can overnight ruin the happy pace that we have gotten used to. Broken relationships, divorce, accidents, court and police cases, online -offline frauds, losing reputation and standing in the society can all bring that unspeakable sadness that adds to the weight of the burdened heart.

Illnesses of loved ones, humiliation at work place, inability to bear pressures of life or work, stress from relationships, broken hearts and broken bones, breach of trust, cheating, financial losses, failure in businesses, strained family ties, natural calamities that wash away home and hearth, all account for those moments when things can get unbearable and cause a deep pain in the heart.

 Many of these tragedies take away all that we have or have collected over years of hard work for a secure future. Often, thoughts of ending the problem by ending the life cross the mind, some weaker minds even going ahead with it. Often, despair and depression cloud the rational thinking. Darkness envelopes the mind and the tunnel seem to have no proverbial light at its end.

However, one must never forget that in face of greater tragedies, these are the floating sad events that only time will erase and hopefully, will one day fly away on its wings. Most of the problems we encounter, most of the difficult situations we face seem to hold us in their tight angry squeeze, will loosen with time. Eventually, the sharpness of the difficulty will blunt away and the pain will fade away leaving little evidence of the hurt it has caused.

There is no such a problem that does not come with a solution, albeit it can make one compromise the routine or change tracks. The human body and mind are well equipped with so much strength as to handle any of these distractions and fill the heart with happiness again. There is no such a bad situation that eventually does not fade away into the horizon. With a mad rush to survive in this fast-paced world, most of us lose the ability to tackle pressure head on. Many a times we forget to see our inner strength and beauty. Even small ups and downs can appear colossal and stop us in our tracks. They can break us because we have forgotten to harness our inner strength.

The energy of youth and the skills of the adulthood are lost in the maze of fear of failure and hurt. The helplessness and hopelessness of the situations arise because we have lost the confidence in ourselves.

What seems impossible is just another problem with multiple possibilities of opportunities. A change of business or a job, re-establishing communication with the person that has hurt you or simply moving on, slowly rebuilding life after calamities or financial losses are all a sure possibility with time, faith, family, friends and determination.

It's often forgotten that none of these problems can take away our ability to work our way to the top again. The bottomless pit where one finds oneself in such a situation is not bottomless at all. The tunnel is dark but we must believe that there is light somewhere. Slowly and steadily, we can crawl up from the bottom into light again. Our precious life and our inner resolve must be kept alive to pull us up.

The despairing situations always remind me of a fable. The story of the king who was so despaired in face of defeat that he felt his life was useless. It was an old uneducated simpleton who gave a ring to the king embossed with the words “this too shall pass” to be seen in utterly hopeless situations. 

Just as Jean De la Fontaine has said, sadness will fly away.

Very rightly, it is profound, it is full of hope and guides us through those difficult times which at that point seem permanent and endless.

We forget that this too shall pass.

We forget that we have the ability to allow it to fly away.

On wings of time.

Dr. REINA KHADILKAR

BEING THERE- LIFE @ 60

 BEING THERE- LIFE @ 60

A decade ago, when I turned 50, I wrote about the feelings one goes through at that fascinating golden milestone in my blog, “Turning 50”. It was energetic, hopeful, exciting and was the crossing when one entered the phase of being old, yet not really old. It’s the new 40s they said as I reveled in the golden glow of turning 50, not really feeling 50!

The decade passed by, life in all its glory. Kids with their achievements, accolades, awards, successes, failures, friends, social platforms and careers. It was as though a movie reel in fast forward that they went from asking pocket money to spending their own, from asking permission to go out to informing hurriedly after they have left, from nursing their heart breaks to holding that special hand with which they would now walk forward and forever. And leaving mine.

It was an amazing decade as I saw my daughter turn first into a loving wife and then to a glowing mother, all engrossed and entrenched in the life that she had brough forth. It was fascinating to see my little baby become me to her baby. The glow of motherhood and the sense of completeness shone on her beautiful face as she struggled and worked her way to the changed demands of her new role. I stood there watching, reminiscing and smiling.

Becoming a grand-mother brought in as much grandeur in my life as it toppled all my concepts of a clean and spotless home. My obsessive-compulsive disorder of keeping my home in strict order was tossed out of the window as cries of hunger, nursery rhymes, white noises for sleep, soiled nappies and tiny clothes filled and spilled all over the house. It was a tiring, exhausting, sapping yet exhilarating, exciting and simply a joyous time for the house.

It was an amazing decade as I saw my son emerge from a gauche, awkward, shy, plumpish teenager to strong, fit, bold and worldly-wise doctor who learnt to handle human diseases with a rare sharp clinical acumen that he has inherited from his illustrious maternal grand-father, a prolific doctor of his times, chiseled and acquired with burning the midnight oil, as he learnt the ropes to handle the emergency casualty at all odd hours, operate on macabre wounds, heal hearts and bodies, learn from seniors and train the juniors on his way to becoming an orthopedic surgeon. Stories of his skills, integrity, honesty and loyalty came to me from friends, colleagues, his co-workers and teachers. His determination to excel, his passion for the field of medicine, his ability to be a man of integrity and the strength of his honesty was what we had dreamt for him as parents. I stood there, watching, proud, happy and smiling.

The decade was pushing ahead, yet life had caught me in the whirlwind of my own adjustments to the rapidly changing digital world, the dynamics of my profession that saw me struggling to keep abreast with not just technology, but changes in the whole system of teaching and being teachers to the generation zee. The protocols and new methods that changed the way we imparted our knowledge of the human body to the new generation seemed to run much faster than I could. I was caught in a time warp of the system that I had been accustomed to. As a teacher, I had to wriggle out of that web of values, principles and attitudes that had created my persona. Expecting the same from the young, bold and restless, yet highly comfortable with “all that was new” generation, was a task that I had to learn to unlearn. The growing years taught me the patience and the philosophy of accepting the change and being it. It was a struggle but a worthy one.

 I could feel the pressure of age that never was there before. The difficulty in molding oneself to the ways of the technology reminded me of the rapidity of ageing. The excitement of buying the latest mobile phone or being a part of the family that loved all things Apple was gradually replaced by an inner fear of unlearning what I had learnt and then learning again all over what needed to be learnt. My heart screamed for familiarity of what I had got used to, yet the young ones around me insisted that I ‘upgrade’. I stood there, fearing yet accepting the ability to learn, unlearn, learn, repeat!

The decade turned from one digit to the next, upgrading my whole being to what the rest of the world refers to as, ‘senior citizen’. This time however, I could feel the pride of being the elder one, of being the support system for all the struggles and hardships my loved ones would go through, of stretching that helping hand of experience that comes with living through six decades of life. This time I could feel the peace of being in control of my choices, my work, my relationships. I could feel the decompression of pressures of running the rat race, fighting to win and hating to lose. I could feel the ease of letting go of hurt, pain and disappointment that people around you inflict, knowingly or unknowingly. I could feel the ability to understand myself in all this whirlwind of emotions and protect myself from the inner storms.

As I stand today at 60, reflecting on the years gone by, the twists and turns that made my life so exciting and full, the people who loved me, hated me, ignored me or even pushed me down, the family and friends who gave meaning to my life, I can feel the fullness of this one life that my parents gave me. I can feel the gratefulness of that Supreme Power that guided me through thick and thin, and be the guiding light on this difficult path.

I can feel the gratefulness of every moment. I can feel the invaluable value of every breath I take, every sunrise I see and every day I spend honestly doing the work I am passionate about, running my home with love and care and getting warmth and love from my people.

As I stand at the beginning of this decade, I can feel the strength of giving, forgiving and moving on. When I look ahead to the coming years, I know I may take a tad longer to catch up with the changing world, but in my own way, I know I will and that it will be the most memorable decade I have ever lived.

In all humility, peace, bliss and happiness.

Dr. Reina Khadilkar

HAVE WE LEARNT ANYTHING AT ALL?

 

HAVE WE LEARNT ANYTHING AT ALL?

We are all still living in the uncertainty of the pandemic. The waves are lashing on to the shores, one after the other, bringing with them untold horror, disease, death and endless tragedies. Every family has at least one sad tale to tell, one big scare and a punch in the face that have thrown the economic wheels of the family into disarray, puncturing the routine with holes that will take years to close.

The last fifteen months have kept all of us away from our normal lives and routine. The new normal concept, unacceptable at the beginning, has now got firmly rooted in our day, night and heart. Social gatherings, get-togethers, parties, engagements and weddings, road-side meets, coffee dates and general loitering have become a thing of the past. As the pandemic settled down in our vicinity, life began taking weird turns and twists. The inability of medical science, virologists and the statisticians working on algorithms to understand what was happening gave the pandemic a good head start and the world reeled under it.

All that we knew was each person, big or small, male or female, adult or child, was a pariah. Anybody and everybody could bring you the killer disease or be killed himself. Anybody, even you, could change your body forever or end the only life you have. The power of the virus was to each one, to destroy or get destroyed which isolated each one into his or her own bubble. We lost trust over our own hands as much as we feared the hands of our loved ones. Hand-shakes, hugs and physical expressions became expressions of fear and we reeled in horror if someone even attempted to. 

Social distancing came home to roost and our homes became isolated dens as each one took shelter in his own world, staying physically away from the other. The interactions shifted to mobile phones, zoom apps and other social media. As the disease raged on, as our mind and thoughts got trapped in the fear of death and disease, our enthusiasm waned, gloominess took over and we collectively retreated in our shells, far away from the people we loved, depended on, laughed and cried with, didn’t care about or even hated.

I remember a radio channel had started a campaign imploring us to make that phone call to the one whom we had broken up with or hurt or had negativity about. It was to make one realize the importance of forgiving and moving on in these uncertain times. I wonder how many of us had the courage to pick that phone and make that call!

.As days passed, the pandemic took a brutal turn. It was like being alive for that moment and that moment alone! The truth and inevitability of our mortality was never starker than this. Nobody could predict the future as the present became dangerously volatile. 

Faced with this ultimate truth, I wonder then, did we pause and reflect on all the happy and sad moments and the people who made it. Did we look at the broken relationships and the broken hearts lying on the way where we were now. Did we remember forgotten bonds, lost friendships and tattered strings of attachments as we struggled to find sanity in the insane pandemic.

Did we not think of repairing what lay broken in these highly unpredictable time. Did we not want to empty our hearts of all the negativity we had collected over the years. Pushed to a corner, did we not think of this opportunity life had presented to us to rise above pettiness that characterizes human nature.

Here was the opportunity to undo what had inadvertently happened or even deliberately, here was the time to heal, here was the time to forgive, forget or ask for forgivance, the time to unburden our heart. Here was the time to rise above our clay feet, to evolve and make peace with ourselves and those who had threatened or actually derailed our peace. The unpredictability of tomorrow would make our today that much stronger and allow us find the medicine to relieve us of that nagging pain, that scratch on the heart or that hatred that had hurt us more than the person to whom it was directed.

In spite of the precarious situation we were in, as infallible humans, I think we did not overcome this huge challenge to our heart. We did not summon the guts needed to forgive someone who had hurt us and we did not move on. Our hearts continued to be filled with the weight all the negativity we had been carrying for so many years.

Even as we faced the unseen dangerous enemy, the courage to grow out of pettiness never came to us. The strength to rise above ourselves and expand our heart to be large enough to tame our ego was never summoned. The fear was there but the threat of dying by the disease seemed empty to all. It was for someone else, in some other place, and we would be spared.

I wonder then, what has the pandemic really taught us. It has brought home the truths about austerity, materialism- a failed concept, work from anywhere but your office, health is wealth, money matters don’t matter that much, vacations and luxuries can wait, life in a bubble and my small circle of loved ones! But it didn’t really teach us to grow above ourselves spiritually and philosophically into that realm where we can find peace and true happiness by lightening our hearts and conquering our egos.

We continue to remain humans and not evolved humans, even in the face of annihilation by disease.

Pandemic has much to teach, but have we learnt anything at all?

Find out your own answers, change if not yet changed, make that call, heal that scratch on the heart and hold on to that elusive peace of mind.

Dr. Reina Khadilkar