40s aren't the new 20s!

Well, someone said 40s is the new 20s and like a fool I believed them! Till the oft bothering back called me to reality. 

So when the clock stuck 12 last week on the 6th of June, I completed the 4th decade of my life. 40 years! I mean, how did that happen?I feel like it was only yesterday when the dad was pulling my leg saying this could be the last bachelor birthday of my life. I was only 24 that day. The best friend and I just cut a random bun with a blade to celebrate that day. Well, bachelor days and age 24 just needed a bun and a blade with the friend. Life was that simple.

Suddenly, when life hit 40, there were the in-laws, the wife and ofcourse the two little munchkins calling me appa. Life seems a lot more complicated. 

Can the 20s ever come back? Can I go back to the days of simple, unfiltered independence? When nobody bothered about what and where I ate and how much I spent. That night, the friend and I just had a random walk down the usually buzzing chennai street at midnight looking for some cooked chicken, doing random talk about dreams, future, love and marriage. After the meaningless walk, we realised the clock had just stuck 5:00 AM and went off to play ball and then slowly back to our day jobs. The body wasn't tired. The mind never panicked. Life was lived at a different pace; it was listening to a different drummer - the heart - then had very minimal rhythms to dance to. 

But 40, sounds different. I'm sure the stress on the letter 'F' to pronounce forty is intentional. It was meant to scare people. To shake off the rust and wake up to reality. The aching back, the tiring legs, the bills to pay, the food needed to be on the table, the wife's nerves, the presentation at work and the children's tantrums. 

No, I don't wish to go back to my twenties. Twenties had their time. I loved it. It was refreshing. Dreams in the middle of the day and mindless chatter in the middle of the night were exhilarating. Independence and freedom of that age were surely the best of times. Yet, no, I don't want to go back to those days. 

Rather, I look forward! Forties aren't going to be flowery. The insufferable back can only go worse. The tantrums of children I have heard will only go worse as they grow older apparently. The parents are going to fall and break bones. They are going to be unbearable. The realities of life are more stark in the forties I suppose; and yet, I look forward to it. 

No, not for some fetish about wisdom and ageing, neither some frivolous understanding of the world. It is just the calmness of mind which comes off with the grey hair and the wider appreciation of world around and the people who come with it. The 20s can never give me the thrill of my children's effervescence or the quiet and longing conversation with the wifey. That age of dare could never replace the victories of the Mind over the aching body. Ah, the thrill of learning that my mind can overcome a hurt knee and still win a badminton match! Perhaps I was late. But only later life lessons has taught me that. The concept of Mind over matter! The concept that you fight till you win and not quit when it pains. The insecurity of the young adulthood pales in comparison to the understanding of security. The lessons of the 20s are pale compared to the life lessons of the older populace. 

Hence, I look at my parents and in-laws and my uncles and aunts with a lot more respect. I look at the world with a lot more awe. I have bigger, and yet more realistic dreams. Responsibilities don't shrink me anymore. Rather they invigorate me. So, here I come 40s. I'm ready to conquer!

No, 40s aren't the new 20s. Ain't meant to be!

 

The four year old boy!

He completed four! Time flies. Not sure how the four years passed by so quickly. It has been one heck of a journey. 

I still remember that day he was born, like it was yesterday. I tried that day to be as calm as possible. The friends who were with me on that day, though, immediately knew I was nervous. Wifey went into labour in the wee hours of the morning, and the fellow came into the world quite early in the morning. From that day till today, he has always been quick-footed. Perhaps he kicked his way out of his mother's womb. 

I wasn't ready for him. I always thought it was going to be a girl. I wanted a girl. Badly! Somehow, the inner me was convinced about the girl. We, stupidly enough, had a name ready only for a girl. I told you, I wasn't ready for him. We weren't ready for him. 

They handed me the baby first. I held onto the baby, like it was my everything. "Yenna kuzhanthai, sollunga (Please tell what baby is it?), the nurse who handed the bundle to me asked. Then it hit me. It is a boy! BOY! "Wait! What! How did this happen? I mean, I am not ready for this," my mind ran amok. To worsen matters, he looked exactly like me. It almost feels like I see myself in him every time, and that's scary. 

The maze my life had been till then, suddenly had a spanner thrown at it. Another life to think about and take care of. A life full of energy. The legs of his, I tell you, never stop running and jumping. He jumps, he climbs, and he runs behind a ball. That is all he wants. To run behind any ball. Yesterday he had four balls in his hands at 9PM bedtime, and he wants to sleep carrying em all in his hands. My wife often says boys are crazy; I never understood it till I saw this replica of myself in flesh and in blood. 

My joy, and my sorrow, my laughter, my anger, my victories, my failures, my hopes, my fears, my anxieties, and my peace, everything my life had been in the last four years had been the boy! 

I have heard people say one will have to have a girl to feel fatherhood! And now that I have a girl as well, I perhaps understand that statement better. 

But have a boy, I say, and you will feel craziness and adventure. 

Happy birthday, little 'K'. Here is to many more years of a life of adventure and running behind those round objects called balls. 

The boy and his adventure toys. 

The young parent!

That photo evoked intense memories. A family photo with my mom, brother, uncle, aunt and a few cousins. Damn, we all looked so young. 

The mother looked the youngest. She looked all of 25, perhaps she was 30 then. I looked 10. My mom wasn't the youngest by Indian standards when she had her children. She was a medical doctor and so had many more years of education, which prevented her from getting married early, as is the case with almost all Indian women of her generation. Yet, it hit me hard. She was at least 10 years younger when she had her first son than I was when I had mine. 

With the wisdom and understanding that only grey hairs and time can give, I huff and puff every time there has to be a decision on my children. Will it be the right one? Am I doing it well? Are we being too strong? Are we being too brash? So many questions go through my mind, and I know wifey asks similar questions too every time we do something for our children. 

How was it having children when you were so young and Naive yourself? A whole lot of my mom's patients became parents when they themselves were in their teens. How was it going through the emotional trauma of having to guide a child when you yourself are lost in the big, bad unknown world?

That picture was taken in New Delhi, thousands of kilometres from our place. None of us knew the language spoken there. In that picture, when all of us cousins and aunts were sitting and facing the camera, my uncle is seen standing, facing elsewhere. He would have been 40. Having two teenage children (my cousins) sitting there with us.  I'm just trying to understand what he would have been thinking at that particular moment. A young male. Not knowing the language. Taking his sisters and extended families, five children, and three women on a trip to a faraway land. The entire burden of keeping the family safe and secure is on him. Imagine what a burden that would have been for a not-so-old man then himself? How many much younger people had to do all these and much more for their own families. 

As and when a child is born, so is a parent! Through the complexities of managing one's own life, the intricate world of another young human being is thrust onto the parent. Sometimes life takes most of us through without giving time to intentionally think through what is being taught and what is being learnt by our children. Sometimes our lives are too complex to actually think about anything else. 

When I reminisce on the family picture, I realise through all the complexities I mention here, the mom, the uncle and all the aunts in that picture had done a fairly decent if not a great job at parenting. We have all become pretty decent adults ourselves. 

I wish we, the children in that picture, could get such grace as that was attributed to the moms, uncles and aunts. I wish there would be a family picture that our children will look at a few(many) years from now and say, "Phew, my parents have done a pretty decent job of parenting". 

Till then, I hope, wish and pray that my brothers and sisters and I navigate not only our treacherous lives with aplomb but also steer our children's as well. We are, after all, blessed with a few more years of wisdom, knowledge, understanding and grey hairs to do that job than perhaps all my forefathers ever had. 

A different world this!

 "My life is so happy, I'm helping people and saving lives", said Justina, a teardrop peeping through her eyes.

 Justina manages the High-Frequency Radio Station; I know; I understand; I was equally surprised listening to her story as much as you, dear readers. How does someone operating a radio station save lives? Welcome to this world. The world of radios. 

"There are remote places in the highlands which don't connect to mobile telephones. People might have to walk one or two hours to get a signal. Hence, the primary mode of communication for such villages is through High-Frequency Radio waves. So MAF Technologies, the Organisation that employs Justina, has installed radio stations in many of these villages. Most of these radio stations are kept along the airfields. Yes, airstrips, the only mode of transport for them is a small aircraft. 

In times of emergencies, like last month, when a wild pig had bitten a lady, the villagers go to the airstrip agent. The agent calls the MAF Technologies monitored radio station. If the case needs emergency transportation of the patient, like in this case, the flight operators are informed over the radio about the emergency and emergency air ambulances are flown in. If the patient just needs an assessment, a doctor is patched up on the radio for long-distance assessments and advice. 

Even in non-emergency situations, when any person in a village, wants to pass on a message to someone in the bigger towns, the radio stations are used, again through the airstrip agent and through MAF Technologies, and in most cases Justina. "I monitor the radio station from 7.45 am to 5 PM, but we will have to monitor it 24*7*365 and hence other staff pitch in and take turns during weekends and evenings", Justina concluded, in her measured radio-trained tone. 

At a time when Non-Governments are scoffed upon and a generation for whom altruism and selflessness are foreign words, there is a motley group of men and women monitoring radio stations and saving lives. 

The numbers over the years have come down! Cell phone penetration is happening, albeit slowly. But Justina is sure that there are still villagers who will need her and her ilk. Last year had 368 calls, out of which 116 were medical evacuations and 69 were medical assessments done over radio. 

I could not complete my graduation. Violence in my village at that time did not let me complete it. My home was burnt. My parents could not afford to send me to university. It is God's grace that I ended up joining here. I'm happy. I save lives. Justina concluded. 

It is indeed a different world! A world where quiet, simple and sincere people like Justina are fighting odds to save lives. 

As I sat straight and buckled my seat belt, I realised something interesting. To my left was an Aboriginal Yolngu woman, and to my right was a White Australian. 

I was travelling around Arnhem land researching the impact of MAF on that part of the world and had just hopped onto an MAF caravan to reach the Elcho Islands, which are close to the northern coast of Australia.

What is so interesting about having a Yolngu woman and a white man on the same flight as I am? 

No, it is not uncommon for Yolngu folks and non-Yolngus' (called the balandas) to interact, but the power dynamics are extremely skewed usually in favour of the balandas. In the church, at the marketplace, at the school and even the playground one can see the Balandas often are at the receiving end of the equation. 

I guess, power dynamics are complex things and it might not be right to frivolously use such complex equations in blogs, but I just realised, that on that MAF plane, where the Yolngu and the Balanda sat together, I could see a glimpse of an equal world. 

As one MAF staff said, the Westerner or the balanda is often there in Arnhem land, the aboriginal heartland, to serve the Yolngu tribe. To be the police officer, to be the teacher, the church pastor or the community health worker. While as lofty as the notion of service is, it sadly does come with the baggage of power, especially with so much loaded history behind it. 

This power dynamic inevitably takes away the confidence of the Yolngu. 

An Indian, as I read the history of my nation when the Westerners ruled, Indians always looked up to the Western world. The white skin was awe-inspiring. It took generations for the  Indians to realise that they could stand together on the same platform as everybody else. 

Of course, MAF is there to serve. To serve the Yolngu. But on that flight, I realised, that MAF doesn't only serve but also facilitates travel for the Yolngu tribes and in that process, puts everyone together on the same pedestal

Can MAF be the facilitator of equal power dynamics? Will there ever be a time when a Yolngu tribe will pilot a Balanda across Northern Australia, and perhaps across the world? Can MAF be the harbinger of an equal society where there is neither a Jew nor a Greek, there is neither a slave nor free, neither a Yolngu nor a Balanda, and everyone is seen and treated as those in the image of Christ? 

On the last day of the trip, I was asked to take devotions to the MAF Arnhem land community. I realised everyone in the hall at that time was a Westerner. When an Indian from a small town can stand on par with the Western world, there will come a time when the complex thread of power dynamics that bind the Yolngus will be broken. 

And MAF indeed has a huge role to play in it. 

Building an ecosystem, one flight at a time!

 "This place has the potential to be a Bali, this has among the highest number of marine species in the world" said he. I had just hopped off a small 6-seater aircraft onto a tiny island in the Indian Ocean, between the Australian subcontinent and the Indonesian archipelago just off the coast of a country called 'Timor-Leste'. 

There was a tuk-tuk waiting along the airstrip. This random Australian was waiting near the Tuk-tuk. Perhaps he was a tourist there. As is my usual, I started talking. We got into the tuk-tuk together and were taken along a dusty road into the village. 

I looked around. A single old broken basketball board stood in a corner. A few mud-unused dilapidated buildings as well. The greenery on one side of the road was covered with dust. The other side was the blue of the Ocean. The tuk-tuk huffed and puffed through the bumpy ride.

After a few minutes of travel, we entered a small compound. "A small resort", he said. Well, it's a resort of sorts. A few white men were having a meal. My co-passenger introduced me to his friend. Apparently, a volunteer helping out in one of the resorts. The volunteer called me to pull in the chair. 

I had recently been to Bali. That is a different world. How on earth will this place become a Bali? His statement was still ringing in my mind.  

I pulled in the chair and sat cross-legged on the chair like only I could. He was just finishing his meal. We started chatting about tourism on this Island. I was mandated to look at the life of the Indigenous people on this remote island and of course, learn about the importance of MAF on their lives.

What was I doing talking to this white man there? 

"This place has live corals and some of the most beautiful marine beings in the world" he continued. Imagine if they could make this place an important tourist destination, the money will start coming into this country. This being so close to Australia actually is a big advantage I suppose. Snorkelling and scuba diving are big sports in that part of the world as well and where better to snorkel than a place with live corals and thousands of marine beings.

"So what is preventing the place from becoming a Bali", the curious man in me asked. 

The biggest challenge the Island faces is the inability to have, regular, dependable, transport services to and fro. The boats could not be trusted. Rough seas are often a dampener. Since the place is only 15 minutes from an airport, having a small air service is an absolute game changer he reckoned. 

"That was the original plan when we started the flight services to Atauro Island", said the MAF country director of Timor-Leste. "We could bring in more tourists and this can revive the sinking post-COVID economy of the place".

"Imagine, if someone stays there over the weekend, he will have to buy food from the local market, which could help the fisheries business in the village, and that could slowly help create a tourist ecosystem here", said one of the seniors of the Island village. 

I did end up talking to a few more people from that Island village. One of them, a tourist, who had flown down on the MAF flight himself said, he would end up spending a few hundred dollars there in the village. More people, more money coming in I suppose! More money, better lives for local indigenous people. 

"Would you be coming over, if the flights weren't available?", I asked a few of them! Many of them replied in the negative. MAF flights are a definite must it seemed like, for the building blocks of this village to be created. 

I had often asked myself the question, "Why should MAF fly commercial?"

I realised then, before the commercial honchos of the world step in, to establish an ecosystem of business, someone has to do the dirty job of setting up the base. Before the money starts to come in, someone has to be creating the stepping stones.

That I guess, is what MAF is doing to the Atauro Island. Creating an ecosystem of Tourism. One flight at a time! 

When dreams become reality!

It is dark. The night is too far gone that the faint crescent of the waning moon hangs over the trees. The house is dimly lit, too! An old-fashioned yellow chandelier of sorts gives a more cosy feeling than the clean, energizing white light. In a corner, I am randomly looking at the screen, intensely thinking about the few months that have gone by! 

It has been two months and it is still sinking in. The little baby girl is ours. We have named her Diya, meaning Lamp. 

Oh wait, what is happening? 

Cut to the year 2002. I was in class XI. My uncle had taken me to a movie theatre. A movie called "Kannathil Muthamittal (A peck on the cheek)". Something in me broke that day. I promised myself then, that I would adopt a baby. A baby girl! Well, very foolish indeed. Perhaps, childish.Whoever makes such random promises. 

Well, 22 years later, here I am, a father again, having adopted this beautiful baby girl. Sometimes dreams become realities too, I suppose! 

She just slept on me. It all feels surreal. 

Apparently, she was abandoned. Perhaps she was thrown away. Whatever that means. For me, it just meant one thing, She is mine. Ours! 

As she slept on me and I was about to put her to bed, I whispered a prayer, a wish; that one day this young girl of mine would stand on the pulpits of the world and pull down patriarchy and casteism and every nonsense this world had thrown at her and thousands of young girls like her. 

I wish that she will one day be bold to stand for the truth and show light to the dark world, question the unquestionable, brave the high and mighty, and fight every hatred, challenge every bias, bigotry and prejudice. 

Hope one day she will question me, my own insecurities and my idiosyncrasies! The nonsense I throw at her in the name of culture and tradition. One day she will go back to the land of her birth and the land that didn't want her then, will embrace her. She will realise that one day love will overcome; hatred and evil will eventually be destroyed. 

I wish that she doesn't have to walk around dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas as Arundhati Roy puts it, but rather walk freely, over the sepulchre of the broken old world, with little luggage and heads held high to reimagine a fresh new world.

So we start another journey! It could well be the most interesting of all: parenting a girl. How different will this be from being a parent to my now 2-year-old boy? I don't know. How different can parenting an adopted child be? I'm not sure. 

The dreams I had dreamt 22 years ago had come to light. Why not the dreams of today? 

What is a better life?

"There is a crocky here", we should look out for him said 'P'. 'Crocodile' you mean, I asked him. Oh yes, there is one crocodile here, came the nonchalant reply. "Ah, we are fine. We are sitting at quite a distance from him", said he. His body gyrations suggested he wasn't bothered much about a crocodile. 

We had just found a place to talk! On the northern tip of the Australian coast, deep into the aboriginal territory of Arnhem land, in Northern Territory, Australia. I was in my usual cross-legged position till 'P' told me about the crocky. We looked around for it, and a little further down in the shallow sea, we did spot him. Strangely we were comforted having spotted him. "It is easier to have an eye on him if we can spot him, said 'P'". His actions did not suggest a tensed muscle. He was as calm as the surrounding ocean.

So with a crocodile as a listener, albeit at a distance, we started our conversation. 

My organisation had sent me there to listen to and if possible measure the work of  'P' in that part of the world. 

We started discussing his life, his work and its impact on the community! Aboriginals, the ancestors of the land till people from Europe came colonising the land, had lived there forever. Their population though has over the years diminished and only a remnant remains. Now there are workers like 'P' who are trying to empower these people to live better lives.  

But, what is a better life? 

How do we define a better life? Who can give one a better life? Can human beings help each other to have a better life? 

'P' is a professional pilot. From a country and a culture completely different from his current location. All his batchmates are captains in big commercial Boeings and Airbuses these days. But he chose this place. "In the middle of nowhere", as he defines the place. Among Aboriginals who the world doesn't want to live with. 

It suddenly dawned on me, that 'P' is not even facing the crocky. He had an absolutely stunning sense of calmness to him. Perhaps there is a better life. Perhaps 'P' knows it. Perhaps that is where the calmness comes from. Perhaps the 'Ps' of the world, will keep throwing us the light on our dark paths to the so-called 'better life'. 

Is there a better life? 

"P" showed us a freshwater spring right beside the sea

In the middle of nowhere

                                                      We flew this to the middle of nowhere

Of 38 or some such random number!

Writing absolutely heals! In times when life sucked, when the world collapsed right before me, when darkness was all I could see around, when the light at the end of the tunnel could never be seen, I always, always turned to my pen! Rather, my keyboard. Inevitably, every time I have come out better; stronger; and sometimes, even cleaner. 

I guess, to each their own. 

But why do I come back to this page today? It is such a clear day. I'm as happy as happy can be! Everything I had been prescribed in life has been good so far. So why write now? 

My earth completed one more of its round around the sun! It has done so many times that I don't even want to remember the number. Some random number! Yet, it feels good to be alive and well and happy after completing one more of its rounds. 

Well, I'm absolutely grateful for what has been billowed to me. Surely there have been frustrating times but in the long run, it has all evened out! Only the good things remain. 

Do I look forward to running one more round? Absolutely! I look forward to many more rounds. 

As I get ready and drag my earth along for more rounds of the same, I promise to be kinder to the world around me, to keep my senses open to learn more new lessons, to be more intense and to push more hard. 

For there are miles to go; kingdoms to conquer; more people to love; novel lessons to be learnt; and The future beckons. For the 39th time around the world. Or some such random number. I don't care! 

Writing not only heals pain; It also cleanses! And that is why I'm here again. To clean the cobwebs of the mind and get ready to run again. 

Two years of Love!

'Appa, Valikithu' (It is painful) little K complained. "Where is it paining", I asked him and kissed his foot, the part of his body where the pain emanated from, according to him. He showed his right leg and then his left. After getting kisses on both his legs, he showed his hands. One by one. "Inga valikithu" (It is paining here) he told me. He got kissed on every part of his body. I kissed his every part. He got love. I loved! 

For a hardcore unemotional logician like me, this is new. This is a different feeling! 

Love and Marriage did happen to me. The wife showered love like there is only me on this planet earth. I did feel special; The love had developed into a bond of friendship built on mutual respect. 

I can hardly write about love without mentioning the mom. She just bled love! The extended family has shown love, pure and pristine at various stages of life. 

But nothing had me prepared for the tingly feeling of the melting heart when little 'K' sees me and runs to me and jumps on me. 

'Appa, yennaachi' (What happened)? he asked me! I had just sprained my neck and had shouted a loud arghhh. "I have a pain in my neck", I told K. "Kaluthaa?" (Is it the neck?), he asked me again. I replied in the affirmative. He kissed my neck. 

Ah, that feeling again! The feeling of the melting heart. 

Today 'K' turns 2! Two years. Time has just flown by.

We didn't plan massive elaborate celebrations. In the quiet corner of my room, I closed my eyes and said a prayer. 

I prayed that the love of his heart, and the tingly feeling of mine will be a constant companion of our lives. 

Happy Birthday my little Munchkin

Will my son ever know my mom?

'Appa', my son 'K' had an exciting tone! He had just recognized me in a picture. It was one of those family pictures that most Indian families had at home. The parents sitting in a chair and the children standing behind them. 

"Who else is there in the picture, chellam", I asked my boy. He looked quizzical. He was still trying to comprehend my question. 'Appa', he said again! This time a little louder. Stressing on the 'pppaaahhh'. 'Who else?, who else? ', I asked again. 'Thatha', 'Gio thatha'; Bang came the reply. 'Chithapa', he continued, pointing to my younger brother. 

'Go on', who else? I asked him! He stopped. He could not identify the fourth person in the picture. Sadly, the fourth person in the picture is not in his life. 

It hit me hard. I had a lump in my throat. A sudden tear drop emerged. My heart felt heavy. My son will never know his grandmother. He will see her pictures and will eventually identify her in them. He may even hear stories about her greatness, but nothing can replace knowing the person in flesh and blood and sadly my son will never get to know her enough. 

One of my life's greatest regrets is not having my paternal grandparents around growing up and listening to their stories, cuddling in their laps, perhaps fighting and arguing economics with my economist grandfather or getting to know about what it meant to be among the first women medical doctors of the country from my grandmother. 

On one of those long nights when my mom and I went about chatting, like best friends do, she talked about having grandchildren. In her own inimitable way, she talked about how she would be inadequate to be a good grandmother.  Then once after she was diagnosed with that dreaded disease and again on one of those long-nighters, when she knew she had very little time, she threw in a passing comment saying she wished to have spent enough time on this side of life to have grandchildren. 

I truly hope that one day 'K' will search to know more about his late grandmom, search for stories on how she was almost worshipped in a small town in southern India, how people thronged to see her, to know how she touched the lives of many, to know that there are people on this earth named after her, to understand that her life was a legacy to not only admire but can even be emulated. 

I wish people were as kind to 'K' as they were to my mom and he could show the kindness and the grace which she radiated. I wish that every time someone calls his name, he knows he is named after one great lady! I wish he would possess that sheepish innocent smile she had. 

Wishes! Hopes! 

Well, what can I give to bring her back in flesh and blood for him to touch and know her? 

 

When an air-ambulance team went the extra mile!

Some stories are hard! Painful! The pain of the oppressed and the anger against the systemic flaws overshadows the heroism of the protagonist. 

More so, if it is not a story but reality. Life in blood and sweat and not what you watch in theatres for three hours, wipe your back, and walk out of. 

I heard one such story yesterday, rather a real-life incident, and it has been haunting me ever since. 

'V' is 15, and wants to pass himself off as a 17-year-old. Which 15-year-old doesn't? He even rode a motorcycle against the law of the land and crashed it. Survived the crash with major fractures. Sadly, his part of the world doesn't have good quality medical service. An air ambulance was called in. Perhaps he would have collapsed if there was no air ambulance service and they had to wheel him on the roads to the hospital which most of the time is at least a good five-hour drive away. 

'V' is not rich enough to afford air ambulances. Thankfully some good souls of the world subsidize air ambulances for people who could not afford them. 

Well, the story starts only now! 

The air ambulance team makes sure 'V' reaches the hospital on time and gets him admitted. 

A few days later, the air ambulance team again decides to visit 'V' in the hospital. After searching the hospital they found 'V' in a different ward, frail, more confused with the same filthy bandage, and possibly even more malnourished. The team asked the inevitable question "Why isn't he operated on yet?"; The answer came, "The doctor will only operate if there are 6 units of blood; we do not know what to do!". 

That answer hit me hard! What are doctors and nurses for, if they could not help a patient understand and get units of blood? Aren't there humble enough human beings in that hospital to ask and clarify simple questions and doubts of patients? Ah, the apathy of the learned! Wasn't education supposed to enrich lives with empathy and compassion or at least interest and enthusiasm? 

I told you, systemic flaws make us go mad! don't they? 

So the story continues...

The boy had to be operated on after the air ambulance team worked on arranging blood! Once operated on and settled down, by the time the team could visit again, 'V' was discharged, without leg support, with no assistance and an open wound. He would end up going back to his village and with no proper help in the village, the wound became worse and septic. 

By the time the air ambulance team decided to do a home visit, the legs had only enough strength to be saved from amputation. Another emergency admission and another long time in the hospital meant the legs got saved finally. 

Well, of course, the air ambulance team is a superhero. They could just have dropped the patient in the emergency and be gone doing their own lives. Their constant follow-up ensued the life, or at the least, the legs of a young 15-year-old got saved. Well, we perhaps need to celebrate real-life superheroes! 

But the story for me is about the apathy of the systems! the indifference of the upper class to the world around them. The detachment from reality. The languor of the privileged. The arrogance of the learned. 

If only the superheroes in the air ambulance team could be everywhere! If only, I could put my ears to the ground and listen to the heartbeat of reality? If only the privileged like me have enough empathy? If only I could take that extra step, just like that air ambulance team. If only! 

When the boy was dropped back home by the air ambulance team!

In dad's shoes!

Every time when someone says 'K' looks exactly like you my heart misses a beat. I gulp! That strange feeling of not wanting your child to be like you. Memories of your life run through the mind. You remember the timid, average, noisy, clumsy, rebellious, and lazy individual you were at various stages of life. Of course, you don't want your child to be that, right? 

Then you wish there will be that gene from the wifey, which perhaps might make him a different human being. Perhaps he will go on to become a successful, clear-headed, and loving human being like his grandmom. Surely there will be some remnant of her passed on right? I pacify the troubled heart.

Suddenly yesterday I saw 'K' doing something with his wrists. Almost like throwing a ball from the back of your hand. The wifey had a wry smile. "He is imitating you", she said; "You do that bowling action no, he is doing the same"! Well, apparently they even imitate your actions. Can't I now sit on my sofa with my legs on it? Can't I just be myself? Ah, the complicated world of parenting!

'K' today decided to play with my flip-flops. He had both of them on and tried walking. They were huge. It almost felt like his legs were an afterthought. The wifey made a sarcastic comment, "In Appa's shoes". There went the heart again. It missed yet another beat! I gulped again. I know it was just an analogy and he wasn't following exactly my path. Yet, the phrase had so much meaning. Ain't it? How will 'K's life be if he follows the same path? The one less trodden, filled with failures and insecurities all along. Of course, it had been one heck of a ride. Is it okay to warrant the same roller coaster for your child? Or should I wish a smooth, seamless life for him?  

The questions that throng my mind every day, I tell you.

For the longest time, my dad was my hero. The ultimate rockstar. When he drove the bullet, I awed at him. I proudly told the world that he is a doctor. At least till the teens, he remained the hero. Mom became a hero later on in life and remained so till the end. Did they know that I was following in their footsteps? Did they panic? Did their hearts flutter too? Or were they sure when they let their hands off me, that I might end up following them? Were they okay if I did follow them? Or didn't? 

Through all the loud white noise of the mind, in the innermost hearts, I know there is no running away from it. For now, there is a human, albeit a miniature version, a human nevertheless, who thinks it is fun to be in his dad's shoes. 

I better be careful! 

Surely following his dad! 

Perhaps his mom too! 

                                                                                                 The scary thought of following in the father's footsteps

Disappointment with God

 

I had just had a huge failure in life. The future looked bleak. I was confused. The phone call rang at that time. I remember the call like it was yesterday. It was my mom. It didn’t start with the usual “Sam di chellam” excitement. It started off with “Sam ma” and then she stopped. Her voice quivered. She stuttered. I’m diagnosed with cancer. Final stages. She said these words and cried. I was in faraway land. I was still a student then. The next few hours were hazy. I don’t remember any of them. Just have vague memories of a friend putting me to the airport and the long flight back home with tears rolling by. I remember the neighbour on the flight asking me whether I need help. There, on that long flight journey, started my inner struggle with God and disappointments with Him. 

God is not fair at all. Here is my mother, the greatest human being I have seen, my pillar of strength, my best friend, one of the best doctors this part of the world has seen, adored & loved by everyone around, having to go through this. I mean, people throng to see her to get healed. I have heard people say they come to see her smile. How many more could she have cured? If only God had been fair
The struggle within the heart of the young adult then was intense and the pain was real. 

As days went by, and with every passing day for the next ten months, I fought with God. He was not fair after all. I tried to reason out with him. ‘Perhaps He didn’t think through it well.’‘My mom would be a blessing to many more if God would heal her.’
Simple logic, ain’t it? But why didn’t God get it? I asked the question many times. The questions my heart had then had no answers. Life had no answers. 

In your early twenties, you are taught to be strong. To show the world outside that you are strong. Also, me being the elder in the family, warranted me to be strong. At least I thought so. I was to guide my younger brother, traumatized father and troubled mother through this phase, I told myself. I was broken inside, often fighting back tears, fighting depression and fighting God but on the outside, I showed myself to be strong. 

Did God fail me? 

Of course, He failed me! Those ten months He failed me every day. I clearly remember one day at the hospital; a fine woman of God came to pray for amma. She said, “Not a hair on your head will fall”, as a promise. I clutched onto it. In fact, I hung onto every small positive verse in the Bible and thought that was God trying to tell me something. Very soon chemotherapy started and not a single strand of hair on my mother’s head stood at the end of it all. In that sense, God failed me. He failed me big time! He failed me every time. 

As I look back now, nine years later, here are a few lessons I learnt through it all. 

 

1) God fails people: I’m sorry, I’m not going to sugar coat and say God never fails. He fails people, often. It’s not God’s job to make all our wishes come true; He’s not our personal genie or fairy godmother. God doesn’t work the way we expect. We can’t make plans for God and expect him to follow us. He is not, in the words of C. S. Lewis, a tame lion. God doesn’t always work the way we expect. Elijah expected God to be earthquake, wind, and fire. He expected God to turn the people back to HIm instantaneously. But God didn’t work the way Elijah thought HE would. God can also work through a whisper; He can (and does) use other things to bring people back to Him. From my perspective, I am pretty sure that my mom would have been a blessing to many more if only she had lived longer. He fails, because our understanding of God’s success and His understanding of the world are sometimes opposite. Does God mean good for me? He does, but His definition of what good means for His people is vastly different from what I define as good for me. Every time when God fail me now, after the struggle within through that year, I tell myself, perhaps there is something good which God sees through it. What is that good which God saw through my mom’s sickness? I don’t know. I don’t see. But He sees it, and that is the most important thing.

 

2) Master is always right: On the day my mom passed away, in the funeral service, my dad made a statement, which has stayed with me. “Master is always right”. He means good for me. In His sight it is good, even if I don’t see it. But the most important thing is, the master is always right. He decides what He wants to do with my life. I’m but to follow whatever he wants me to do with my life. 

 

3) Time heals: Does time heal? I have often asked myself this question. There have been days when I have missed amma, days when without amma life is very unpleasant, and I have wondered what a joy it would have been for her to be around; but to be really honest, those days are becoming fewer and fewer. As time goes by, the hurt has gone off. I do miss Mom. I still think my life would have been so much better if she had been there but time has healed me. We have all learnt to live without her and God has helped us to overcome the trauma of it all slowly but surely. 

 

 

4) Where else do I turn to? As frivolous as this may sound, every time when life has been very difficult, I have only turned to God, for the simple reason that I don’t have anywhere else to turn to. To cling on to the hope that God means good for me and only God can mean good for me through everything in life is the single biggest lesson I have learnt through it all. I cling onto God, for there is nowhere else to go to. 

 

I often think, if God conducts a wrestling match and wants to select people, I will be among the top choice, for I fight with God often. I lose hope and faith every other day. Failures have thronged my life and many times I have declared God dead in me. It has been many years of the fight, and I suppose it is going to be many more years of it. God has failed me, will fail me but I go back to him, coz where else will I go, if not to His Love that has meant good for me in His own world and in His time.

When we commit our way to the Lord, we can be sure that even through life’s disappointments, God is big enough and good enough to get us on the best path, even if it’s not quite what we hoped for.

How did it feel to be 20?

‘Sam Chithapa’ my nephew repeated the word for the umpteenth time. He was showing me around his university campus. I was following him, catching my breath often, trying to be his cool uncle, walking around his fancy university, and talking about stuff that I thought he would like. Oh, yes! The nephew is already 20. I feel old. 

What does it mean to be 20? oh, what a joyful time 20 is! My mind took me down memory lane.

I had joined college. Engineering college, which I hated with all my heart. I could have so easily been a doctor I suppose, but God had different plans. Anyways, looking back, life ain’t that bad then! How can life at 20 be bad? I mean, responsibilities are minimal and so life had to be fun right? Less responsibility, less worry.

I was very sure of myself then! So cocky sure. I knew the world was not run well. If only they had given me the chance to run it; Everywhere I go, I had a view of the world around me and its people. The college principal didn’t know a thing. The Head of the department, he is a moron. My mom was too naive, dad too erratic, Christianity is dying, or waiting for me to save it, Manmohan Singh the then prime minister doesn’t have a clue about running a country, and well the world was in fact waiting for my wisdom. I judged everyone and had an opinion on everything. Have I changed now? With all the grey hairs, I hope I'm no longer that anymore. The wifey will know better. 

As much as I thought knew the world, my tentacles often looked interested in newer things, perhaps looking for newer problems to solve. I remember the first time the caste system and reservation were discussed, it felt like the third eye was opened. I first read about LED lights and went awwww. When Steve Jobs announced the iPhone, oh what joy and thrill to read about it. It was joy undiminished to know the best friend is flying abroad and to learn newer things about that elusive ‘abroad'. I wish I get back that inquisitiveness. The joy of learning newer things. The tired and sad me now often gasps at newer things. How I wish I’m 20 again

The world out there always sounded green and blue. London and New York and Perth and Canberra were distant dreams, waiting only to be conquered. The serene, green IT industry was beckoning me. Very soon I will have lots of money, a beautiful house, fancy cars, and a dream job. I will be writing programs o save the world from disaster. There will not be any hunger and poverty. The naivety of the young adult world.  I can die to go back to that world of colors, rather than the somber, complaining, sad, and poverty-ridden world mine is now. 

There were days during college when the then best friend and I could pull off an all-nighter (Talked through the night), go to a full day of college, play a game in the evening, and still have energy for the next day. Now, the backache is a reality. One night of sleepless travel and the next morning life makes sure you remember the bed. If only I can go back to that body of my youth!

Does one fear anything at 20? I remember the time when I decided to climb down a mountain with a rope tied to the waist and a huge waterfall falling over. Phew, just thinking of that makes me faint now. Yesterday a friend helped me do something far less scary and oh, the nervousness of it all. 

If allowed to go back in life, I will go back to my 20 and live it all over again! Perhaps in a different college :) But in the same daring, cocky sure, dreamy, optimistic, and busy individual I was then. 

I look at my nephew now and wish he can remain the same! But can someone defeat father time?