I shall admit it- I was in a morose kind of mood for the past few days. I felt tense, frustrated, purposeless, and wasted. Among other things I also feel lonely. It might be interesting to explore the root-cause of each of those negative emotions, but it might be a better choice to understand how to deal with it all. I have broken no ground, which has not been broken before, but in some small way I have resolved the situation for myself. May be it can help others too.
Although I am still tending the remnants of that phase, yet I decided to give myself a little shake and have tried to gain some focus this morning. I had a feeling that my head was held in a vice, which was getting tighter by the minute. I had heard a lot about anxiety attack but yesterday I seemed to have had one myself. I was not ready for that, but it shook me very rudely, nonetheless. I am not sure that I am ready for the anxiety monster to take over my existence, just yet. I woke up this morning (if you count lying in the bed closed-eyes as sleeping) feeling dull and groggy. Somehow, I got ready and left for work in time. My head was still in that invisible vice, which was ready to crush my head in the next minute. The feeling of helplessness was just about to spread all over me. And that is a very precarious position to be in when you are driving. I tried to gain focus on my physical situation and started where the hurt was the most- my head. There was a dreadful little frown sitting right on my brow. “That is that awful vice that has been crushing my head for the last few days,” I told myself. It felt better, after I smoothened that frown. Sure, enough the head was back to its normal function and negativity raised its head the vice started to get tighter yet again. I repeated the exercise all through my ½ hour drive to work. I was attentive for the frown to not form again. It crept in off and on and I kept brushing it off. I cannot say it was fun, but in the end it improved my stance. My mind could not collect negative thoughts while I was working on the vice; I had it working for me. And half hour was a good time for making my mind quit the morose mood pattern. I had gained some control and a realization too, that it is our determination that makes our minds and bodies to behave the way we like. Yes, the negativity will keep returning and we will always have rough patches in our lives. However, to deal with them we have to keep our heads out of that unpleasant vice and to achieve that we have to try to crease away the frown whenever it appears.
Friday, November 04, 2005
A Rebuke too Late a Passing too Early: Homage
The world observes Leukemia and Lymphoma Awareness month in September.
Her name was Patcharee Hensirisak, which conveniently was shortened to Pat for the convenience of all who were not Thai. But more popularly she was called Anne. I liked to call her Patcharee and was one of the few who did. She always told me that she loved that somebody called her by her full name. The truth is it was not that difficult the charee was actually a Thai version of Sri in Indian languages. “Thai is a child of Sanskrit like many other Indian languages,” she told me once.
Patcharee Hensirisak was a student of Biochemistry who came to the United States to ‘upgrade’ it to an engineering degree. So she enrolled in the department a semester after I did. Our areas were different- she was in Food engineering and my specialization was an extension of my undergraduate degree- soil and water engineering. But the initial course-work for both of us landed us in many classes together, Statistics, Mathematics for engineers, and what not. I had some advantage over her in the math and statistics classes. Thus our hellos extended to ‘good to see you’ and then weekly meetings where I would give her small clues to solve ‘complicated’ assignments. By the end of the semester she passed with a B+. She was so happy but also felt obligated to return the ‘favor’. After two semesters she got that chance when we both enrolled into a graduate level Microbiology course. This time she had an advantage over me and I gained through her. My mind just wouldn’t accept to understand the complicated world of microbes and how they functioned. I remember the patience with which she explained to me the physical theories and chemical reactions in the microbial world. Slowly, it all seeped in and I came out with glorious B- in that course. Believe me I had not felt that great with all the other As and A- s to my credit in other courses, as that B- made me feel. I learned a lot in this course and a lot of the credit goes to Patcharee.
As we finished our course-work and started on graduate-researches we distanced out a little bit. A meeting in the lab, graduate-office or downtown was all we had. But the warmth remained the same. I still remember one fall as she entered the graduate office panting.
“Have you been running all the way through,” I jested.
“No, I was not running Shuchi. I have been having trouble breathing for some reason.”
“Do you have allergies?”
“No, I don’t think so. I also have some pain in my chest for some time now.”
“Oh did you go to the doctor.”
“No, not yet.”
“Why,” I almost rebuked her.
“I have no time. I need to take constant readings, sometimes at 3 in the morning,” her sweet voice sounded tired.
“Why don’t you ask Bob to take them for you,” Bob was her boyfriend.
She laughed at the suggestion. Her laugh was like a tinkle- a sweet trembling vibration that echoed softly in the hallway, where we usually met- she coming in me going out or vice-versa.
A year later she discovered and we learned that she had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The whole department was struck with shock. Patcharee was 25 years old. She and I had a heart to heart talk once when she had just returned from the John Hopkins Hospital after a Chemotherapy session. I can still picture her standing in front of her car when I came out of the department building. Her boyfriend by her side looked tremendously tired and fragile. He smiled at me weakly, while Patcharee gleefully ran towards me and embraced me. “Look at my cool toupee I have been telling Bob how hot I look,” she chimed. “Oh yes, you certainly do,” I felt optimistic at her cheerful countenance as I examined her oriental-looking wig. “May I speak to you for a few minutes,” she sweetly requested as she took me aside. “Of course, you don’t have to ask,” I was feeling a little guilty as I felt that I was not as much there for her as I should have been.
Then she told me how she had ignored her earlier symptoms- swollen lymph nodes, recurring fevers, and night chills. She also thanked me to ‘scold’ her for not visiting the doctor sooner. She had made an appointment soon after our chat in the graduate office. I remember feeling a little relieved, only to find later that my ‘scolding’ had not been as timely as it was needed. “So, what is the prognosis, Patcharee,” I eyed her pleadingly as if trying to coax out a positive answer. She became serious, “That’s what I want to talk about. It doesn’t look good. The doctors want a bone-marrow transplant done soon. But it is difficult to find a match,” her face reflected a ghastly seriousness. I now understood the tiredness that Patcharee’s boyfriend had on display, it was actually helplessness. I was feeling the same. “I am getting in touch with all my friends to prepare them for my departure,” she said those actual words. “Please Patcharee don’t say that,” my voice grew weighty as I tried to fight the unnerving tightness in my throat. “Please be strong, Shuchi,” she requested with a genuineness that I am yet to find in any other human being. I had that conversation with her in the fall of 1999.
Patcharee fiercely fought with her disease till January 7th, 2001. I was not in Virginia by then and couldn’t keep in touch because of the aggressive treatments that kept her out of touch from most of her friends. We did exchange emails whenever she felt strong enough to write. She was a hard-working woman who worked till few days before her demise on two publications. They were both published posthumously.
The sadness still creeps up in me from time to time. I still have her email address in my address-list and I don’t think I will ever be able to delete it from there. I know that she lives in my heart and of several others. However, seeing her name in my address list, every now and then, helps me remember Patcharee, her smiles, friendship, warmth, and the tuitions she gave me in the microbiology class. It also somehow helps me keep rooted and reminds me about the fickleness of life and reasons to tame that fickleness. Moreover, to pay close attention to friends and family who are complaining of physical discomfort and reprimand them for not going to a doctor as soon as possible or take them myself if they wouldn’t themselves.
With this account I request to all who are reading to please pay close attention to your bodies, listen to the messages it is giving you. Visit a doctor as soon as you find some abnormal growth/s or symptom/s. If you sometimes feel that it might be your imagination still trust your instincts and do not delay a visit to the doctor. Also, if a family member or a friend talks about his or her symptoms, help them get a health assessment as soon as possible.
A few links on cancer:-
http://www.oncologychannel.com/
http://www.cancerlinks.org/
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/home/index.asp?level=0
Her name was Patcharee Hensirisak, which conveniently was shortened to Pat for the convenience of all who were not Thai. But more popularly she was called Anne. I liked to call her Patcharee and was one of the few who did. She always told me that she loved that somebody called her by her full name. The truth is it was not that difficult the charee was actually a Thai version of Sri in Indian languages. “Thai is a child of Sanskrit like many other Indian languages,” she told me once.
Patcharee Hensirisak was a student of Biochemistry who came to the United States to ‘upgrade’ it to an engineering degree. So she enrolled in the department a semester after I did. Our areas were different- she was in Food engineering and my specialization was an extension of my undergraduate degree- soil and water engineering. But the initial course-work for both of us landed us in many classes together, Statistics, Mathematics for engineers, and what not. I had some advantage over her in the math and statistics classes. Thus our hellos extended to ‘good to see you’ and then weekly meetings where I would give her small clues to solve ‘complicated’ assignments. By the end of the semester she passed with a B+. She was so happy but also felt obligated to return the ‘favor’. After two semesters she got that chance when we both enrolled into a graduate level Microbiology course. This time she had an advantage over me and I gained through her. My mind just wouldn’t accept to understand the complicated world of microbes and how they functioned. I remember the patience with which she explained to me the physical theories and chemical reactions in the microbial world. Slowly, it all seeped in and I came out with glorious B- in that course. Believe me I had not felt that great with all the other As and A- s to my credit in other courses, as that B- made me feel. I learned a lot in this course and a lot of the credit goes to Patcharee.
As we finished our course-work and started on graduate-researches we distanced out a little bit. A meeting in the lab, graduate-office or downtown was all we had. But the warmth remained the same. I still remember one fall as she entered the graduate office panting.
“Have you been running all the way through,” I jested.
“No, I was not running Shuchi. I have been having trouble breathing for some reason.”
“Do you have allergies?”
“No, I don’t think so. I also have some pain in my chest for some time now.”
“Oh did you go to the doctor.”
“No, not yet.”
“Why,” I almost rebuked her.
“I have no time. I need to take constant readings, sometimes at 3 in the morning,” her sweet voice sounded tired.
“Why don’t you ask Bob to take them for you,” Bob was her boyfriend.
She laughed at the suggestion. Her laugh was like a tinkle- a sweet trembling vibration that echoed softly in the hallway, where we usually met- she coming in me going out or vice-versa.
A year later she discovered and we learned that she had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The whole department was struck with shock. Patcharee was 25 years old. She and I had a heart to heart talk once when she had just returned from the John Hopkins Hospital after a Chemotherapy session. I can still picture her standing in front of her car when I came out of the department building. Her boyfriend by her side looked tremendously tired and fragile. He smiled at me weakly, while Patcharee gleefully ran towards me and embraced me. “Look at my cool toupee I have been telling Bob how hot I look,” she chimed. “Oh yes, you certainly do,” I felt optimistic at her cheerful countenance as I examined her oriental-looking wig. “May I speak to you for a few minutes,” she sweetly requested as she took me aside. “Of course, you don’t have to ask,” I was feeling a little guilty as I felt that I was not as much there for her as I should have been.
Then she told me how she had ignored her earlier symptoms- swollen lymph nodes, recurring fevers, and night chills. She also thanked me to ‘scold’ her for not visiting the doctor sooner. She had made an appointment soon after our chat in the graduate office. I remember feeling a little relieved, only to find later that my ‘scolding’ had not been as timely as it was needed. “So, what is the prognosis, Patcharee,” I eyed her pleadingly as if trying to coax out a positive answer. She became serious, “That’s what I want to talk about. It doesn’t look good. The doctors want a bone-marrow transplant done soon. But it is difficult to find a match,” her face reflected a ghastly seriousness. I now understood the tiredness that Patcharee’s boyfriend had on display, it was actually helplessness. I was feeling the same. “I am getting in touch with all my friends to prepare them for my departure,” she said those actual words. “Please Patcharee don’t say that,” my voice grew weighty as I tried to fight the unnerving tightness in my throat. “Please be strong, Shuchi,” she requested with a genuineness that I am yet to find in any other human being. I had that conversation with her in the fall of 1999.
Patcharee fiercely fought with her disease till January 7th, 2001. I was not in Virginia by then and couldn’t keep in touch because of the aggressive treatments that kept her out of touch from most of her friends. We did exchange emails whenever she felt strong enough to write. She was a hard-working woman who worked till few days before her demise on two publications. They were both published posthumously.
The sadness still creeps up in me from time to time. I still have her email address in my address-list and I don’t think I will ever be able to delete it from there. I know that she lives in my heart and of several others. However, seeing her name in my address list, every now and then, helps me remember Patcharee, her smiles, friendship, warmth, and the tuitions she gave me in the microbiology class. It also somehow helps me keep rooted and reminds me about the fickleness of life and reasons to tame that fickleness. Moreover, to pay close attention to friends and family who are complaining of physical discomfort and reprimand them for not going to a doctor as soon as possible or take them myself if they wouldn’t themselves.
With this account I request to all who are reading to please pay close attention to your bodies, listen to the messages it is giving you. Visit a doctor as soon as you find some abnormal growth/s or symptom/s. If you sometimes feel that it might be your imagination still trust your instincts and do not delay a visit to the doctor. Also, if a family member or a friend talks about his or her symptoms, help them get a health assessment as soon as possible.
A few links on cancer:-
http://www.oncologychannel.com/
http://www.cancerlinks.org/
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/home/index.asp?level=0
My Muse
The task I put myself to, was to write about a woman who can inspire me and other women. The names that stood out in memory were of the women who had lived their lives and exemplified me with good ideals and theories. But as much as I had learned from their past, the urge in me was different this time. I wanted to feel like a schoolgirl in 4th standard who grasps for the first time the serious artist within her. She then stares dumbfounded at the blank paper and cautiously approaches it to draw/paint the best art she had ever drawn or painted. And it was not such a difficult task, I realized as I looked at my children.
I love to write about my children, for them, and to them. Both my children inspire me everyday to be a better mother. But my daughter is my muse at times when I either feel inadequate or
confident of my womanhood. Since she was the older of my two children, her role as my muse started when she was just a pea-sized embryo in my uterus. The apprehensions, the ecstasy, and the pregnancy related sickness all reminded me day and night on how to be the best mother as I could be. But when the doctor said, “What do you know! It is a girl!” The meaning of motherhood just transcended to a whole new level. I had thrown my head back to prevent my eyes to spill any tears. Later when I held her in the calmness of the hospital room I had realized that I had not only given birth to a girl but also a mother of tomorrow- somebody who would take the generation one-step ahead to which I would just be an ancestor. And the importance of being a woman just multiplied in my heart and mind.
That night after I nursed her she slept on my breasts. The nurse came in to take her to the nursery but left whispering to me, “It will be a sin to end this lovely scene.” I don’t think I caught a wink of sleep that night- partly, because I was afraid to smother her breathing but also because I enjoyed her pink softness so much. As she lay, in a diaper, snug on my bare breasts I imagined if my mother had held me in the same way after my birth. And my eyes welled up. Things were not much different from what they are now. People preferred a male child to a female one. Not my mother, she was just a child when she had me-17. And I do not have any prove even today that she could have loved a boy more than she loves me. But after four more daughters her inability to give birth to a son was considered the prime fault of her existence. Sometimes among explicit or implicit disapprovals directed towards her I had felt guilty on being born a girl. But later when the full realization about the advantages and the beauty associated with womanhood occurred to me the delight surpassed the guilt very easily. That night as I held my daughter close to my heart I thought of my mother and those thousand other women who that day might have delivered a daughter like me. I thought of those mothers who were not allowed to feel joyous and victorious as I felt. I thought of those daughters whose births were mourned. Then I realized how tightly I had gripped the small infant body of my first born-my daughter. Most of all I felt lucky.
Another day, many months after her birth, another news of female infanticide caught my eye. My face fell from disappointment. As my daughter lay deep in a slumber I wept for all the unborn daughters of the world. That night when I picked her up, still preoccupied from the news she leaned forward to grab my nose. Nudging me out of that pensive state, provoking a smile with her playfulness. As she whimpered to get out my possessive clutch I realized how independent her entity is from me. She could be anything, she was the blank paper that life gifted me with to draw a masterpiece with the best of my ability. I was the one who would teach her the importance of womanhood and how to be self-assured about her femininity. It was only from me her mother and not her father that she could learn that we are different from men, not equal or unequal, and that that was okay. She would also learn from me the art and need to complement a man and not fight the useless gender fight. I had a whole new norm defined for me. Her small existence had a huge impact on my thoughts and theories of life.
Today, at age 2 years 9 months she can articulate full sentences. The other day she had faltered and got her genders mixed up, she had said, “Mommy, I am a good boy.” “Are you a good boy,” I did not want to impose a correction from my side. Her face was animate with a passionate resistance, “No I am a girl. I am a good girl,” she had said stridently. I don’t know whether her fury was directed towards me for noticing the slip-up or was internal on committing one, but it was reassuring. As I picked up the plate from the dinner table I smiled confidently. I am sure and feel more enthused than ever on being a woman and for my vision in which no daughters of today, including my own daughter will mourn a daughter’s birth when they become mothers. In stead will celebrate the success of taking mankind to a step and a generation further.
I love to write about my children, for them, and to them. Both my children inspire me everyday to be a better mother. But my daughter is my muse at times when I either feel inadequate or
confident of my womanhood. Since she was the older of my two children, her role as my muse started when she was just a pea-sized embryo in my uterus. The apprehensions, the ecstasy, and the pregnancy related sickness all reminded me day and night on how to be the best mother as I could be. But when the doctor said, “What do you know! It is a girl!” The meaning of motherhood just transcended to a whole new level. I had thrown my head back to prevent my eyes to spill any tears. Later when I held her in the calmness of the hospital room I had realized that I had not only given birth to a girl but also a mother of tomorrow- somebody who would take the generation one-step ahead to which I would just be an ancestor. And the importance of being a woman just multiplied in my heart and mind.
That night after I nursed her she slept on my breasts. The nurse came in to take her to the nursery but left whispering to me, “It will be a sin to end this lovely scene.” I don’t think I caught a wink of sleep that night- partly, because I was afraid to smother her breathing but also because I enjoyed her pink softness so much. As she lay, in a diaper, snug on my bare breasts I imagined if my mother had held me in the same way after my birth. And my eyes welled up. Things were not much different from what they are now. People preferred a male child to a female one. Not my mother, she was just a child when she had me-17. And I do not have any prove even today that she could have loved a boy more than she loves me. But after four more daughters her inability to give birth to a son was considered the prime fault of her existence. Sometimes among explicit or implicit disapprovals directed towards her I had felt guilty on being born a girl. But later when the full realization about the advantages and the beauty associated with womanhood occurred to me the delight surpassed the guilt very easily. That night as I held my daughter close to my heart I thought of my mother and those thousand other women who that day might have delivered a daughter like me. I thought of those mothers who were not allowed to feel joyous and victorious as I felt. I thought of those daughters whose births were mourned. Then I realized how tightly I had gripped the small infant body of my first born-my daughter. Most of all I felt lucky.
Another day, many months after her birth, another news of female infanticide caught my eye. My face fell from disappointment. As my daughter lay deep in a slumber I wept for all the unborn daughters of the world. That night when I picked her up, still preoccupied from the news she leaned forward to grab my nose. Nudging me out of that pensive state, provoking a smile with her playfulness. As she whimpered to get out my possessive clutch I realized how independent her entity is from me. She could be anything, she was the blank paper that life gifted me with to draw a masterpiece with the best of my ability. I was the one who would teach her the importance of womanhood and how to be self-assured about her femininity. It was only from me her mother and not her father that she could learn that we are different from men, not equal or unequal, and that that was okay. She would also learn from me the art and need to complement a man and not fight the useless gender fight. I had a whole new norm defined for me. Her small existence had a huge impact on my thoughts and theories of life.
Today, at age 2 years 9 months she can articulate full sentences. The other day she had faltered and got her genders mixed up, she had said, “Mommy, I am a good boy.” “Are you a good boy,” I did not want to impose a correction from my side. Her face was animate with a passionate resistance, “No I am a girl. I am a good girl,” she had said stridently. I don’t know whether her fury was directed towards me for noticing the slip-up or was internal on committing one, but it was reassuring. As I picked up the plate from the dinner table I smiled confidently. I am sure and feel more enthused than ever on being a woman and for my vision in which no daughters of today, including my own daughter will mourn a daughter’s birth when they become mothers. In stead will celebrate the success of taking mankind to a step and a generation further.
Desirable Daughters: A Book Review
“Complicated” is the word that comes to mind as I read the concluding lines of the book Desirable Daughters by Bharati Mukherjee. There is no denying that Bharati’s style is witty, intelligent, and detailed but also complex.
The plot revolves around three Bengali sisters who have adopted different life-styles. Tara, the protagonist is in her late 30s and is a divorced Indian woman with a teenager son with same-sex orientation. She is the youngest of the three sisters. The plot starts to thicken when readers are disclosed about a scandal from the oldest sister’s younger days. She had been an unwed mother and the non-existent nephew comes on Tara’s doorsteps. Only, the nephew is an imposter, a criminal who we later found out has killed the real nephew. With an expectation that the plot will revolve around the plight of this young man and somehow a mystery will unfold I went on. Alas! That did not happen. The book remains tight with the Bhatacharjee sister- the desirable daughters as the title of the novel proclaims. And still the plot seems so scattered as if trying to bring forth many nuances with a single color on the palette. Many a times Bharati gets back to the central theme of the novel, which reignites the interest. The next paragraph then delves into a tangential matter in a manner that alienates the reader from- what happened before or was going to happen next. It seemed as if Bharati had too much to tell and she chose a single platform to do so. She seemed to get back every now and then to what the reader would be looking for and then choose that platform to elaborate on the Indian immigrants’ or Indian culture, her rich ex-husband, her sisters and their lives. Her references to the Indian communities was accurate her use of phrases such as –Smug Indian Housewives Club so apt that it was humorous.
Bharati surely has wit, which comes out very well in this novel. Her playful sarcasm at the artificiality and boastfulness of Indians tickles the senses. Still a congruent flow is what I expect from the books I read. I want them to tell me the story from the heart, climb up my mind, and make me think. The book succeeded in neither. What amazes me that I still finished the book, of course I skipped through many boring parts. I think Bharati managed to tell the tale intermittently, while she managed to blow-up her inner thoughts continuously. But I have to tell you that it was the brief lapse into the storyline that made me read the book until the end. Although, I must say that, even with a lack of definite storyline, the book did do justice to its title- Desirable Daughters. I must also mention that the last chapter was almost spiritual and might have been the best in the book. Will I recommend it? For the vocabulary- yes, for original style of writing- yes. For the plot- No! I guess the answer in the end is –No because a book is a book only for the story it can tell.
The plot revolves around three Bengali sisters who have adopted different life-styles. Tara, the protagonist is in her late 30s and is a divorced Indian woman with a teenager son with same-sex orientation. She is the youngest of the three sisters. The plot starts to thicken when readers are disclosed about a scandal from the oldest sister’s younger days. She had been an unwed mother and the non-existent nephew comes on Tara’s doorsteps. Only, the nephew is an imposter, a criminal who we later found out has killed the real nephew. With an expectation that the plot will revolve around the plight of this young man and somehow a mystery will unfold I went on. Alas! That did not happen. The book remains tight with the Bhatacharjee sister- the desirable daughters as the title of the novel proclaims. And still the plot seems so scattered as if trying to bring forth many nuances with a single color on the palette. Many a times Bharati gets back to the central theme of the novel, which reignites the interest. The next paragraph then delves into a tangential matter in a manner that alienates the reader from- what happened before or was going to happen next. It seemed as if Bharati had too much to tell and she chose a single platform to do so. She seemed to get back every now and then to what the reader would be looking for and then choose that platform to elaborate on the Indian immigrants’ or Indian culture, her rich ex-husband, her sisters and their lives. Her references to the Indian communities was accurate her use of phrases such as –Smug Indian Housewives Club so apt that it was humorous.
Bharati surely has wit, which comes out very well in this novel. Her playful sarcasm at the artificiality and boastfulness of Indians tickles the senses. Still a congruent flow is what I expect from the books I read. I want them to tell me the story from the heart, climb up my mind, and make me think. The book succeeded in neither. What amazes me that I still finished the book, of course I skipped through many boring parts. I think Bharati managed to tell the tale intermittently, while she managed to blow-up her inner thoughts continuously. But I have to tell you that it was the brief lapse into the storyline that made me read the book until the end. Although, I must say that, even with a lack of definite storyline, the book did do justice to its title- Desirable Daughters. I must also mention that the last chapter was almost spiritual and might have been the best in the book. Will I recommend it? For the vocabulary- yes, for original style of writing- yes. For the plot- No! I guess the answer in the end is –No because a book is a book only for the story it can tell.
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