There’s a certain serendipity in our collective experiences, isn’t there? The wombs that carry us, the blood that flows in our veins, the walls that protect us or break us down; everything seems designed to make us different from each other. And yet, like divergent short stories whose plot lines intersect seamlessly, the pages that form our lives seem to be written by the same hand.
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Truths we divulge cautiously, fly like paper planes fluttering through uncertain updrafts. Some land in safe hands, others disappear into the ether, never to be uttered again. Conversations over red wine and cigarettes lead to revelations that shift the plates that steady our relationships.
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There seems to be some invisible thread connecting the humanity of our shared experiences. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and yet I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I will be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges. Your eyes will betray you as I peer against your will, into that moment when your boss humiliated you or you found out about an unfaithful lover.
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You see, we’re more alike than different. My skin, eyes and wavy hair are just totems of that same grand lottery that makes princes of some folk and paupers of others. At our core you and I are same. You and I were meant to be each other’s.
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So when you lie down at night and stare at your ceiling, remember these words. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and *yet* I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I *will* be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges.
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You are not alone. I see you.
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And for all you know, I too could be lying down somewhere, staring at my ceiling; alone in a room bathed in moonlight, hoping that someone, somewhere sees me too.
Tag: love
Be at Rest, ‘Nana A’
Annette Doreen Gracias was my mother’s oldest sister.
I paused after typing that to let the weight of the realization sink in. My aunty Annette, who I fondly called ‘Nana’ is no more. At 4:40 pm this evening, the chords of life and death snapped and in an instant Nana Annette was relegated to the past tense.
As is natural, I have spent the last few hours reviewing WhatsApp videos and images of aunty’s last weeks. She had been struggling. She was in pain. The light in her eyes was dimming. I certainly don’t want those to be my final recollections of her, so my mind has been trying to conjure up memories of past conversations; of us laughing together or sharing the latest Bollywood gossip.
Circa 1950
I think of her combing her greying hair almost religiously at 3:30 pm each day, before she could ask for her evening tea. I smile to myself as I remember her telling me about a long-forgotten boyfriend, her first time on his motorbike and how she remembered exactly what she was wearing on that eventful day in the 60s. And after I finish this reflection, I will search for those greying pictures of Nana Annette in her heyday, in her 60s street fashion, her afro, the bellbottom pants, her tent dress and the oversized glasses that concealed her fun and free spirit.
Immediately after her death, there were things that needed to be done — and members of my family did them all, faithfully. In a bizarre yet familiar way, practicality now fills the ebb and flow of our staccato Zoom conversations and almost manages to drown out the quiver in my mother’s voice as she relays the facts to us over the miles.
Grief is not linear. My cousins, my Ma and nana Annette’s other siblings will all grieve in different ways. Some days, the grief will lie dormant. Some days, it will be inflamed like emotional rheumatism. Perhaps at particular times of year, or during passing conversations a switch will flip and fond memories, nostalgia, and whatever else will bubble back up to the surface.
I have always been closely connected with most of my extended family. All of us are after all, just small points on our lines of ancestry and knowing who I am and where I come from helps me understand my relevance in the world in which I live and breathe.
But tonight is not about reminiscing about her struggles, her heartaches, her health and her ultimate demise. Tonight is about the many wonderful memories I have of nana A, the lessons learnt from her characteristic ways, the time shared together and the values imbibed. Living away from home allows me the bizarre luxury of disconnecting from the practical to concentrate on the poignant. Nana’s life wasn’t always easy, but her faith was strong and stayed that way till her final days. It filled her frail frame with a strength, confidence and blessed-assurance that only a deep-rooted spiritual conviction can bring. She lived. She served. She loved. And now she is at rest.
As a family we’re tapping into that same reservoir of faith this evening, knowing that when we are no more, we will live on in the hearts of those we leave behind.
Be at rest, nana Annette, I love you.
Legacy
Family faces are magic mirrors. Looking at people who belong to us, we see the past, present and future.
Gail Lumet Buckley
Marie Amelia Atkins (Age 17)
For the last few days, I’ve been staring at this photograph of my grandma from her wedding day. I wonder if she had any idea how simple, yet profoundly impactful her 82 years would be. I remember her stoking my early love of travel by telling me she was the first in our family to fly on an airplane, travelling from Burma to Bengal, where she met and married her husband at the age of 17!
The short answer is that I can’t quantify her life because her legacy is a living, breathing thing. It resides in her children, grandchildren, and even friends in modest places whom she considered family. Her legacy is alive in the things that we say, and the mannerisms with which we say them, and the glimmers of her physical appearance reflected on all our faces.
There are so many things that grandma taught me directly, and even more things that she has passed on to me indirectly by teaching Pa (who in turn taught me). Grandma at 17 was beautiful, grandma at 82 was picture of life lived bravely, faithfully and resolutely.
Reflecting on this picture of grandma I’m reminded that family is the greatest gift I have received, because from it, I’ve got values that bleed into everything I do. That to me is my grandma’s greatest legacy. Ten years after she left us, life goes on without her, but not a day passes without her far reaching impact touching someone else through us all.
Lights in the Distance
Each year I look forward to traveling back to Calcutta. I will confess, I cringe at the decaying buildings, I grumble until the gurgling carousel at the airport spits out my luggage after an eternity. I sigh when I see that while I’ve changed, the city has not – she’s still stuck in that characteristic inertia. In spite of all this, the best part of making the journey home is the open arms of family (and snuggles from our fur baby). No other feeling comes close.
I haven’t been home since 2019 and the opening and closing of borders in a Covid world continue to fill me with anxiety and dread. What if…. I stop myself. I don’t even want to put the thought out into the ether.
This weekend the lights in the distance lit up the magnificent #Atlantis as I watched from the sidelines of The Pointe. They glistened and danced in the inky waters that reflected back their luminosity. What a spectacular sight, such a grand reminder of the Shangri-la they welcome us into.
I think it was Aristotle who said that it is during our darkest moments that we must focus on the light. Light belongs to the heart and spirit. It attracts people, it shows the way, and when we see it in the distance, we follow.
I’m not sure what you’re experiencing as you read this but my heart is 3367 kms away, at home. There’s no shame in feeling homesick, it means you come from a happy home and that while things and experiences change us, we begin and end with family.
Walking out of #ThePointe I thought about the future. And, I thought about the last two years, maybe the longest years of my life, maybe the worst. Going forward I guess faith and gratitude matter more. After all the madness, after all the loss, there is still more hope than despair. We’re still here, we’re safe and we’ve been given a new lease on life, literally. We are stronger, we went through a year like we had and somehow came out on the other side more or less, intact. We’ve changed, and we’ve been reminded of what is important. What really matters.
Light is precious in our dark times. No matter what you’re going through, look to the light and whenever it’s possible, be the light. God knows, we all need more of it!
Excerpts
5.1.21
It will get worse before it gets better. The exhaustion comes in waves. The aches and pains remind me of those first few years when I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatism. Everything hurts.
Temperature 38.0 C
8.1.21
I have been reading about Covid-19 and how difficult it has been for millions of people. My experience on day 8, is quite different. I feel my cough subsiding already, though I am beginning to sound like a baritone. Only the headaches and the unexplained exhaustion serve as a reminders that the virus is still inside me.
Friends call all through the day, they all mean well. I am given medical advice, reminded of the brand of Zinc tablets and Vitamin C Supplements I should take, exercises I should do and breathing techniques that they know, worked for others. I listen appreciatively and promise them I will take care. The only thought running through my mind is about keeping this secret from my ma and pa. Them worried and feeling helpless is the last thing I need right now. There will be a time to spring the news on them, perhaps over dinner in the summer, like 12 years ago when I told them about the night that I had to spend in the CID holding room. 😊
Honestly, I think I am feeling better already, though I have been warned that the bug is deceptive and stealthy. I check my temperature twice a day – no red flags so far. I have been taking all my medication at the right time – no concerns there. I am eating all my meals and drinking lots of fluids too. I think I’ve got this. No?
I really do not know how to explain it, but there is an odd feeling of peace even though I am now part of pandemic statistics. Should I be more worried? Should I be doing things differently? When I read all the information online, I worry that maybe I am not doing enough to beat this disease. But the feeling of anxiety passes as suddenly as it emerges, and I am left with that feeling of peace again. The faith that everything is as it should be. That this too is part of His plan. As I key in this last sentence I am suddenly reminded of an often-quoted Bible verse.
Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.
– Psalm 23:4
It is strange – a verse I have known and used all my life brings comfort in a brand-new way and context. I smile to myself. He is with me. HE has got this.
Sleep comes.
Temperature 35.7 C
14.1.21
I tested positive again. I was so certain this phase was behind me, but here I am, still a statistic. Still part of the tainted percentage. Colleagues are asking why my test still lights up in red, and I wish I had answers.
Temperature 35 C
21.1.21
Nostalgia is the ruling planet of the day. As I lie in bed and listen to the sounds outside my window I am suddenly yearning for the everyday things I am being forced to isolate from. I am not one to stay indoors; I love my strolls around the neighborhood, I love the opportunities that present themselves – to take photographs of everyday things, to write a micropoem inspired by a passing cloud, to smile and nod to the Nepalese security guy at the department store (I should ask him his name at least, he is always so polite) I love my routines – there’s so much happiness to be found in the humdrum.
Every day is like an advent calendar, little surprises, something new. A heavy head, acutely painful calves, upset stomach, pins and needles on my palms, aches all over.
The internet described recovery times of about two weeks for people that had not been hospitalized. I had not had it severe, yet here I am after past three weeks still on the road to full recovery.
Temperature: Normal
1.1.2021
I tested positive for Covid-19 on New Year’s Day. For almost four weeks in early 2021 I went through a roller coaster of health, emotions, and utter exhaustion. Although not hospitalized, it was a tiresome and long road to recovery, as I continued to test positive long after the 10 day isolation. The illness ebbs and flows and is slow to go away. When it did, “post-Covid fatigue syndrome”—set in and stayed with me well into March. For a month, I looked and lived like Tom Hanks in Castaway. On my good days, I was real good, the bad days were a struggle. Throughout those weeks, I toyed with the idea of blogging about my experiences – on one hand, writing was helping me keep my emotions in check and on the other, I was so afraid that I would overshare. I wanted to get well before I told my parents what I had gone through. The news in early 21 was bleak and media alerts from WhatsApp University were only making matters worse, globally. I am now finally ready to share bits and pieces of my experience. As I type this, India is seeing her worst wave of Covid. The news is bleak, my insides hurt from having to be away from home, and the headlines all spell doomsday. The aim of this series is to get a message out: for some people the illness goes on for a few weeks. Symptoms come and go and they can be strange and frightening. The exhaustion is severe, real, and part of the illness. But having Covid19 allows you to recalibrate too. You are given time. Your body is set to restart mode and as it boots back up, things do get better. If you are going through what so many of us have been through, hang in there. Find the light. Seek it out. Fix your eyes on it. It will see you through. Here’s to Hope and Healing
I tested Positive for COVID-19 today. What a way to begin the New Year!
After an entire year of social distancing, staying indoors, sanitizing, not traveling and basically just re-adjusting my rhythm, the darn virus got me. The news was not shocking or overwhelming, like some might imagine it to be, because to be honest, I knew how I was feeling, and I understood what my body was telling me way before the SMS arrived with the confirmation.
I spent the day cleaning the apartment like I normally do – I find household chores therapeutic. I did laundry, I caught up with my emails and went about my day as normally as I could. I even managed to make it through ten pages of Avni Doshi’s ‘Burnt Sugar’, uninterrupted. It is ironic that despite the lockdown, the oppressive amounts of free time at the beginning of the year and basically putting my social life on hold – my reading habits have ebbed and flowed, with procrastination preventing me from getting though all the books I had on my ‘to-read’ list for 2020.
There is a slight heaviness in my head and an itch in my throat. I feel like dad’s old Navy-Blue Vespa, spluttering and gurgling each time I feel a cough rising in my chest. My hands seek out Kleenex and a face mask, my eyes search for the faithful ‘Aquafina’ positioned beside my bedside table and my eyes look to the London Tyler clock as I make a mental note about how long it has been since I last coughed. A scene from FRIENDS punctuates my thoughts; Janice timing the gaps between her contractions, the two situations are in no way the same, obviously. But I snigger anyway. Such a random recollection to have right now… must be the fever!
Friends who tested positive have started a + Support Group on WhatsApp. By evening I am added to the group and reading the gentle advice of a doctor in the UK. I make a mental checklist as I scroll through the conversation –signs to look out for – how to position myself when I sleep – red flags to be aware of – there is so much information that I do not have, despite the copious amounts of reading that took place when the Pandemic first broke. I tap on my Samsung and within minutes strips of Vitamin C supplements, a thermometer and some other medicinal knickknacks are delivered to my door. I catch myself toying with the thermometer absentmindedly in the fluorescent light of my kitchenette; it is the first time in thirteen years of living in the UAE that I have had to buy one.
As the curtains come down on first day of the New Year, I am oddly amused. As I try to find a comfortable spot on my memory foam pillow, I wonder out loud how the rest of the year will pan out. What other surprises are in store? When will all of this end? When will I get to go home and hug mum and dad? There are no answers of course, just silence, interrupted by the ticking hands of my clock – reminding me that despite the inconvenience, the Universe has given me an opportunity to reset. And so, I shall.
Temperature 36.3 C
Frankly Speaking - Sydney Atkins 