Movies or Memories?

I am on a bus journey from Bangalore to Madras (will never call it Chennai). Before I left, Sakthi asked me, no suggested, no kind of bullied me into choosing movies that I could watch on my tablet during the ride. I tried telling him that I would rather sleep but he wouldn’t hear of it. So, I had the pick of movies from English, Tamil and Hindi. Wicked me would have preferred something in Malayalam though. Nevertheless, 5-6 movies on the tablet, laptop, phone, chargers for all plus a battery pack went into my backpack. Sakthi dropped me off at the bus station and guess what I did as the bus moved? Slept!

I woke up when the bus stopped for passengers to have lunch. I had mine packed. So, I could just sit back in the bus and stare out. And, I reminisced about all the bus rides I have been on. Well, at least the ones I can remember now.

My earliest memory of a bus ride is one I may have taken when I was 3-4. Appa took me from Madras to Tiruchi, to my maternal grandmother’s home. Sparse details include holding Appa’s hand and climbing on to the bus, little square-ish pink candies he thrust in my hand (was he bribing me to have a peaceful journey?), the play of light and shadow streaming in and out through the bus windows, waking up in between to see a string of lights and some amorphous reflections on a large water body which I took to be the Kaaveri and finally, running to meet Baba (my grandmother) who held my hand firmly yet with a lot of tenderness and walking with her.

The next ride I remember happened in my 5^th grade. The school had organized a picnic to Mahabalipuram, a rite of passage for almost every kid who studies in Madras. Back then, there was no East Coast Road that now helps you zip past but not notice the distant blues of the Bay of Bengal, the white frothy waves that lash ceaselessly, coconut and palm fronds rustling, occasional wafts of fresh catch of fish brought in by the fisherfolk, barren sand dunes and an occasional glimpse of the backwaters. I don’t remember much of the ride or what I saw in Mahabalipuram, I have been there so many times it is tough to recollect specifics. I remember sitting down on the bus next to Savitha, one year my junior, only because she had something in her snack box, something she called a cake. She let me have a little bite, it tasted sugary and which kid wouldn’t want more of it? So, this ride is special coz I had my first taste of a cake! Ever!

The next was one that happened in my 7^th grade. Again, a school trip, this time to Mamandur Lake, Thirukazhukkundram etc. We had to leave early morning so all kids had to spend the night before at school. The school I have hated all my life (more on that some other time) became my abode for that night. We, countless number of kids, crammed into one classroom on the ground floor. Under the glow of one orange light, I remember a girl who pulled out a few bottles, dabbed little balls cotton and wiped her face. I was mesmerised by the process which seemed to take about 10 minutes. I asked her and she told me, this is a cleanser, this is a moisturiser, this is blah, that is blue etc. To this day, I know nothing about cosmetics but I learnt some terms for the first time that day.

Many rides happened since then. Some were with family, including perhaps one from Kanyakumari to Madurai in my 9^th grade and several with friends to Tonakela campsite every New Year with the Cauvery Guides Group. But by far, the most memorable one was one with Satish Chetty, my partner in crime for several adventures. 1996. It was the weekend coinciding with Republic Day, January 26. We decided to go to Pondicherry to see a friend’s sister who was studying there. I had met him just once before but we decided to go together anyways. I got on to a bus loaded with passengers and Satish was in it too - tall, lanky, all bones guy, earplugs snaking down to his jacket (like you ever need one in Madras), and holding on to a pole on the bus. I gave him a disdainful look, muttered to myself, “spoilt brat, bloody Peter-nu nenaippu (Peter – somebody who wears garish out of place clothes but thinks/acts like he is classy).” I held on to another pole on the bus and kept reading a book and surely Satish must have had similar derisive thoughts about me. Nary a word passed between us, we reached Pondicherry, went to the girl’s hostel, went out for dinner, ate like crazy, did mindless shopping and came back. More of the same followed the next day, a Sunday. By now, we had warmed up to each other.

Around 4 in the evening, we bid goodbyes and reached the bus stand. Reached out to our wallets and realised we had 50+ rupees with us. In 1.5 days, we had spent more than 3000 rupees and now we were down to just that. After binging on star rated food, we had to settle for a couple of bananas each. Next, we reserved our bus tickets for a rupee each. Satish decided to keep the 50 bucks needed for the ticket money in his wallet so I wouldn’t be stupid and lose it. Two hours later, the bus arrived and we stood in queue to get on.

The bus conductor asked us for our reservation slips. We gave it. But... the ticket money was gone. We had lost it! The conductor was getting impatient. I frantically waved my credit card, saying I could pay (ha ha ha!). Satish flashed his walkman and his gadgetry to prove we were not crooks up to getting a free ride. People behind us started taunting us. We were desperate. What do we do? There was no way to reach home. We both had to get back to work. Back then, there were no cellphones, I didn’t even have a landline at home. It was embarrassing and frightening at the same time. We pleaded but nothing worked. The bus was about to leave. The conductor just waved us inside and said we could work out something but what? We settled down in the bus not knowing what would unfold next. Then suddenly, a young man threw a couple of tickets through the window and told us to use it. He had asked us for our tickets half an hour earlier so he could take his mother home! Even before we could say anything, the bus moved and we were on our way home. To this day, neither of us can even recollect what the man looked like. We reached Madras very late, borrowed money from our neighbour to pay the auto that took us home. What an unforgettable experience.

There have been rides before and some more after. One where a male co-passenger (a classmate really) tried feeling me up, one between Ahmedabad and Baroda or the one on a Government bus from Ajmer to Pushkar (never again!) the latter two both with Sakthi, one to Jim Corbett where my Nokia colleagues and I sang Antakshari aloud and some became very good friends. And, the one bus ride I missed – my child’s first ever with his father.

None of these were made with technology leashing me. No phone with whatsapp to update where I was at a given point of time. No net connection to browse Facebook or news sites. Now, I am giving a Salman Khan movie being shown on the bus a big miss and I don’t regret that. But, I am typing this on my laptop while missing trucks passing by, vehicles lining up on toll roads, white and red mile markers along, villages on the way with ruminating cattle and scattering chicken, tractors, green fields, various trees that I never learnt to identify despite 3 years of studies in Botany, trees painted with alternating bands of black and white (why is that?), hopeful villagers on the side of the roads selling oranges and tender coconuts, rocks precariously holding on to each other for support, the blue and gray sky with little puffy clouds, occasional lashing of rain on my window. I am missing all this.

Well, no more. I am going to shut down my laptop and leave it in my backpack with the tablet full of movies that Sakthi so thoughtfully downloaded for me. Am going to look out the window and see if I can identify any birds that I can show Surya the next time, if the blue sky will cheer up and blush a bit, if some kid on the roadside will wave at me, watch out for funny stuff painted behind the trucks and if a dog chases for a distance. Movies can wait, memories are more important. 

Mind over matter...

I have a funny problem now. I can't remember things all too well anymore. I am a 43 year old SAHM, Stay At Home Mom for the uninitiated. Now, pregnancy and delivery brings about memory loss of a peculiar kind. You can't remember the life when the little imp wasn't around. It's all a blur like a movie you watched ages ago. You sort of know the plot, remember snatches of scenes here and there - a dance in the rain, some friends who hung out together and had a lot of fun, puppy love and crushes, the hero (your husband) gets the heroine (you) after some effort and there is a haze of a certain date when a lot of people of milled around you, thrust some gifts in your hand and posed for pictures. You remember the lights dimming after that with tantalizing hints of a sequel. Your mind is still in that haze.
There is a memory loss which is initiated by listening to lungfuls of cries from an alien you have no idea how to communicate with. From sleeping in snatches of minutes but waking up in terror thinking it has been hours and the thing lying next to you may not even be breathing. From fussing over every little runny nose and runnier crap (pun intended). From breaking your head over how to make that thing open its mouth to eat but shut it tight instead of screaming wantonly, when all you need is deathly silence and peace.
But I am not talking about that. This is strange. I can't remember when this started. Suddenly, I couldn't remember the name of the gynaecologist who delivered my child. Actually there were 2, but this was the nicer one. It was her voice that announced the magical words which changed my life, "Congratulations, you have a boy!" That voice woke me up from drug induced deep sleep. That hand held mine while I writhed in pain as the anesthesia wore off. She with that long hair, a smile permanently etched on her face, kindness in her voice and demeanor and yet, 2 years and 7 months later, I couldn't remember her name. I focused on my memory of her face for 3 whole days, agonizing on how I could forget her before the name came back to me. Dr. Soumya Balakrishnan. This was just the beginning.
Then, Sakthi and I talked about a restaurant we used to go to often, the food was average but we went simply because it was convenient. My maid used to work there too. I tried remembering the name. It wouldn't come. I could recall scenes of me eating there, with and without my child and my bland reaction to the uninspired food served. I remembered the orange, rectangular signage but the words were missing - they seemed to have been wiped out. I spent 2 full hours, my mind focused singularly on unraveling this mystery and then voila, I knew. It was Mast Kalandar.
A few days later, I ran down to the shop in the basement of our apartment complex to buy a packet of dal (lentils) and a bunch of bananas. The bill came to, I think 185 rupees. I handed over a 500 rupee note. The store clerk handed me the change - a bunch of notes. I kept staring, I couldn't figure out if I had been handed the right change. I tried calculating but it just wouldn't come to me. 5 minutes or later, I had to ask, although in a authoritative tone to hide my own momentary incompetence, if I had been given the right change, I was assured I was and I left in haste.
Some days after, my boy had just been washed and he stood there in all his nude glory. I noticed a black spot on his butt. I had seen that several times before. I wanted to show his father and laugh at the strange spot for what could perhaps an identification mark. I called Sakthi and said, "Look at that." He asked, "What?" And, I kept staring because the word wouldn't come out of my mouth. I repeated, "That thing! What is the name for it?" Sakthi saw me agonizing and said, "It is called a mole." Hmm. Mole, in English. Macham in Tamizh. No strange tongue twister in either language. Yet, for 10 minutes, I stared at a bare bottom for no perverse reason but that I couldn't find a damned word.
These are just a few instances and would seem normal except that I always had a razor sharp memory. I would meet a long lost classmate at an airport lounge 18 years after I last bid goodbye. I would remember his name, his campus placement, his then girlfriend and mundane other details. Now, I couldn't remember the woman who got my child into this world. When I topped my class in French, my teacher asked me how I could do so well, I told her, that I remember everything as pictures and somehow, the picture of a oft-frequented restaurant was smudged. I topped my state in Mathematics in my 10th and I struggled in basic arithmetic to get change now. I formally learnt 5 languages, speak and understand a few more and still, I couldn't remember a word in the two dominant languages of my brain. Weird right?
This sparked visits to the neurologist, EEG, MRI, thyroid, blood tests and the works. Are you stressed? Are you depressed? Do you sleep well? Is there something you are not telling us? The questions came thick and fast. Yes, I am a bit bugged about not getting a job after a maternity break but not stressed. Yes, I had post postpartum depression but that got over more than 1.5 years ago. I don't sleep well, I never have. I have always been restless, I am a light sleeper and my brain ticks through the night too. Yes, I am not telling you that I know you think I am faking this. The doc says, "You are too young to get dementia or Alzheimer's. Take this pill and don't google about it. Take this for a month, sleep tight and come back." Of course, I googled and found out that it is an anti-depressant with its own crazy side effects. I have skipped it.
So, that's where I am now. With a mind that marches or halts at its will and me fighting a battle against it. If I spot you somewhere and don't recognize you, consider this. You are that jerk boss who made my work life miserable enough to make me quit, I am so totally forgetting you dude. You are that person who didn't value my friendship when I offered it on a platter to you. Just be glad I didn't block or report you for sending multiple friendship requests on Facebook. You are that ex-crush who broke my heart and even if you come crawling on all fours, you are not even a distant memory anymore. If you are that guy who tried molesting or harassing me on the streets, go rot in hell. For the real people who I value or vice versa, if I don't remember you or your birthday/anniversary/child's birthday/the day you got laid off or dumped, just please be kind. I am struggling to remember myself. I am not hiding behind my memory loss to rid you goodbye, not yet. Anyways, if you are smart and know me well enough, you will know whether I am faking it or not.
So, what next? Whatever I have forgotten in the recent past, I repeat it to myself several times, even in a single day, so at least I don't forget that thing anymore. I started doing crosswords 2 years back but now, I ensure I do one everyday, even if I am travelling, on vacation or sick or haven't done any other chores around the house. I need my mind alive. I have started blogging again so I pen down my thoughts before the words for them abandon me altogether. I give myself random quizzes (I used to be an active quizzer during my school days) to test my memory. I read more to check if I can remember what my eyes scan. I know I can beat this and I will. My mind is stronger than my body and always has been. This is just one more in the journey. 

Giving after one's gone

Last week, Sakthi and I went on a trip to Shimoga with our little one. Somewhere on the way to Bhadrawathi town, we drove past a funeral procession on the road. A very modest crowd of about 30 people, lead in the centre by a woman decked in finery, a huge marigold garland weighing down her neck, face smeared with vermillion and kumkum and a bunch of flowers in her hair. The sun was beating down mercilessly on her face and yet, in that harsh glare, one couldn't miss that she was weeping. Must be related to the person being carried on his last journey.
I pointed it out to Sakthi. I told him that I wanted no such fuss when I am gone. I just wanted all harvest-able organs donated and the rest of the body sent for cadaver research. He grimly replied with an "Yes." He knows about my views on this. I made a pledge to donate my organs when I first got my driver's license in the US in early 2000. And, when I made my will and its versions, I always included a clause about this so when the time comes a calling, there is no misunderstanding as to what needs to be done. He is a signatory to my will, so he has always known.
Sakthi doesn't have a will penned down. I have been pushing him to make one for about 4-5 years now with no success. He feels no need for it because according to the existing Hindu law, whatever material assets he has will be divided in 3 equal shares for his parents, me and his child. He is also lazy (I say so!) or busy (he says so!) to formalize this. I have given him my will, so he just needs to change names but he won't. After nagging (as is my wont), I finally gave up.
This was a good time to have this conversation or so I thought. So, I asked him, what do you want when this happens to you? He just shrugged and said, "Well, I will be dead and gone, so what does it matter?" I am not one to give up easily, so I persisted. "No, you know about my wish, I need to know yours." Then, he said, "So, I don't want all this religious rituals and stuff either. Just donate my organs too." Phew! Now, that was quite some progress after all these years. Next up, I asked him if he wouldn't mind writing this down so I don't have any fights with his family (if they want differently) over his dead body. Sakthi just clammed up and said rather irritatedly, "Will you stop?" I couldn't. I said, "But, I don't mean anything bad. Documenting this with solve a lot of hassles in the future." At which point, Sakthi just got angry and asked me not to talk about this again coz he had by then started imagining the scenario and obviously it was not pleasant or worth it.
Understandable but isn't death an eventuality that none of us can escape from? One doesn't need to waste the wonders of a living moment in fear of something that will definitely happen but to not even spare a thought for it? There is a saying in Tamizh, "Neruppuna vaai vendhudumaa? By uttering the word fire, will you burn your mouth?" Why this fear? Why not see that as the final milestone and be prepared for it? And prepare your loved ones also for it?
Why not give the ultimate parting gift to somebody who needs it most? Eyes that can shine light into one among the millions in India waiting for a corneal transplant. Heart and lungs that can breathe life into some poor soul? Kidney, liver, intestine, tissue - there is so much to give and so few do. One doesn't have to be dead to donate some of these but as Sakthi said, "when you are dead and gone, what do these matter?" So, why not give away?
Read up more on organ transplantation here. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Organ_transplantation
To register for organ donation, go to http://www.mohanfoundation.org/ or http://donatelifeindia.org/register-your-decision/
To read more, go to http://www.transplantindia.com/ and http://www.dnaindia.com/health/report-govt-launches-online-registration-to-boost-organ-donation-in-india-1660390 and http://www.organindia.org/
Foremost though, is having a conversation with your family and loved ones. I just made a start. The discussion needs to continue till the fear is no more and only a firm, fruitful decision is made. How about you all?

P.S. With this blog post, I have also made public Sakthi's wish. Now, I only need him to acknowledge this. Sly me. :-)

Bigotry and stupidity are universal!

If you are a Muslim or Christian, you can't eat beef because the Hindus worship cows. That is India.
If you are not Muslim, if you carry a damaged Koran planted in your bag, you could be tried for blasphemy. That is Pakistan.
If you are a Muslim woman and get raped, you will need adult male witnesses (who watched the rape and did nothing) to testify for you or you get stoned for adultery. That is Saudi Arabia.
If you are a woman, you can't get abortion if you want to or even if your life is in danger. That is Ireland, many countries in South America and many states in the US.
If you are Buddhist or Uighur Muslim, you can't practise your own religion in peace for decades. That is China.
If you are a Rohingya Muslim, you can be a stateless citizen in a Buddhist country and be stranded on the seas. That is Burma.
If you get thrown out of your country, you have no right to return while millions are resettled in their "homeland" or you live in neo-Nazi ghettos. That is Israel.
If you belong to a minority sect of Islam, you are a blasphemer and discriminated. That is Pakistan, Iran, Libya and Syria.
If you have colonised and laid many countries to waste across the globe but complain about immigration and refugees, that is Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, USA etc.

Bigotry and stupidity are universal.