So, two nights ago I had a seizure. After 6 long trouble-free complacent years. To top it all, I was in office, for the world and sundry to gasp over.
Sounds ghastly? Well, yes, it was. My first attack was when I was 9. My whole extended family had hysterics while I had hysterics. Looking back, I can make wise-cracks about it, but at that time, it felt that my world had shattered.
Over the years, it happened 3 more times. Monday was the 4th eventful one. My medicines had become a part of me, much like my spectacles, and I never even bothered to “realize” it. Along with time, I had to face a lot more than a blackout, there have been heart problems, high BP and sundry other ailments I have faced. So, I “shatter” a lot less nowadays.
Though, I agree, a few cracks HAVE appeared in my armor now. My smug, self-satisfied air of “I’m taking care of myself REAL well” has taken a severe beating. It will take about 24 more hours for my Cheshire-cat grin to be firmly back in place.
Maybe I’m paranoid. What really gets my goat is to be treated like an invalid. I keep telling people IM FINE, but people take time in believing that. This illness is one that makes you go “boom” internally, for whatever time it takes, and then, within 24 hours, u’r up and jumping around, and yes, PERFECTLY NORMAL. That, I think, is sometimes a little hard to digest for others, because they are looking at you with expectant eyes, WAITING for you to put on a show or something.
The pro to this whole mess…
a) it was in office, I had people to take care of me
b) it was late, so, not ALL colleagues saw me having the seizure
The con to this whole mess…
a) it happened in office
b) it happened at all…
Having been-there-done-that… and faced it, and writing about it, for the world to see, is a catharsis of sorts.. I can come face to face with my mental blocks about my illness, and shrug off stigma. Hey, if Steve Waugh can have it, and emerge a winner in more ways than one, I’m in good company :)
A deep realization comes about my well wishers, my friends who love me, and have surrounded me with care.. I don’t know what I would do without them.
The blackness also comes from within.. a frustration .. what did I do wrong, what could have gone wrong, why me again, etc etc. The frustration builds as I had been given a clean bill of health by my doc, for the last 6 years and never dreamt this would happen.
My doctor tells me “you seem fine, absolutely no problem… but ur crash dieting brought down ur blood sugar levels to a dangerously low point, so ur body reacted”. So, we all make mistakes. Good that I made it now, than later at a more critical point in time. I just wish god had a nicer way of nudging me along in the right direction.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
sugar and spice and everything nice
My grandmother, or didubhai as the whole brood of grandkids used to call her .. what can I say about her, and what can I not? My childhood revolved around her and her days around mine.
My earliest memories are of her waiting patiently, unwearying in heat and storm, for me, at the bus stop where the bus would drop me off after school. In my younger days, we would walk back, hand in hand, me chattering incessantly about school and other sundry topics..
As I grew older, of course, so did my sense of self importance and indignation.. “Was I a kid that someone would pick me up from school?” I raved and ranted, in righteous anger. So, she would bribe me with “dosh paisar badam, aar dosh paisar hojmi”, every single day. Its hard to imagine how much largesse could be got in those times, with 10 paise. In the end, greed won…and so did she.
We were born in idyllic days, days spent in going to school in the mornings, afternoons spent listening to stories about didubahi’s childhood and her trips.. “oy beratey jaowar golpo ta ABAR bolo”. And then in the evenings, she would herd all the cousins down “keyatola lane” to take us to ILSS, where we would swim from 6 to 8, with didubhai running around the pool to make sure we 5 were all right..
The minimal studying I did, was all with her, in my baby years, with her teaching me English, and Bangla and spellings. With math she somehow managed the basics, after which ma, thankfully, took over... and then, when I would win the spelling tests in school, didubahi and I would fight as to who would get the credit for it..
Halcyon days, touched by love, and light and wonder, stories of “shikar, jongol”, interspersed with some mythology, from all over the world, and “the little mermaid” of Hans Christen Anderson. She was, in a lot of ways, responsible for my love of literature - like Scheherazade, she would leave the story just as it was getting interesting, and say “aar parchi na, bakita nijey poro”
She was a grandmom I could display to all with pride, and certain smugness. Who else had a dida, who would wear shorts and get into the massive breakers of “Purir shomudra”, or wear jeans and be on horseback during a trekking trip at the age of 70, cap tilted rakishly on her head. And who would, while deep in pujo of her beloved Gopal, who, by the way, traveled everywhere with us, in his little Air India bag, would say “chandan, amakeo jeno ektu diyo”- we called it “karonbari” after that. When I went to my Tirupati trip (for larks, not religious fanaticism) this April, all I could think of was her, and that I was in the land of her Gopal… maybe, I was doing it for her.. god knows.
As I grew older, we drifted apart. Caught up in a whirlwind of life, I usually had less time to spend with someone, for whom time had slowed down. Always impatient, always running.
Memories come crowding in, jostling, pushing, shoving to be let out, to be given centre stage. My mother tells me, “write a few words in her memory”.. and once I start writing, I cant seem to stop.. words become pages, and its still not enough.
My earliest memories are of her waiting patiently, unwearying in heat and storm, for me, at the bus stop where the bus would drop me off after school. In my younger days, we would walk back, hand in hand, me chattering incessantly about school and other sundry topics..
As I grew older, of course, so did my sense of self importance and indignation.. “Was I a kid that someone would pick me up from school?” I raved and ranted, in righteous anger. So, she would bribe me with “dosh paisar badam, aar dosh paisar hojmi”, every single day. Its hard to imagine how much largesse could be got in those times, with 10 paise. In the end, greed won…and so did she.
We were born in idyllic days, days spent in going to school in the mornings, afternoons spent listening to stories about didubahi’s childhood and her trips.. “oy beratey jaowar golpo ta ABAR bolo”. And then in the evenings, she would herd all the cousins down “keyatola lane” to take us to ILSS, where we would swim from 6 to 8, with didubhai running around the pool to make sure we 5 were all right..
The minimal studying I did, was all with her, in my baby years, with her teaching me English, and Bangla and spellings. With math she somehow managed the basics, after which ma, thankfully, took over... and then, when I would win the spelling tests in school, didubahi and I would fight as to who would get the credit for it..
Halcyon days, touched by love, and light and wonder, stories of “shikar, jongol”, interspersed with some mythology, from all over the world, and “the little mermaid” of Hans Christen Anderson. She was, in a lot of ways, responsible for my love of literature - like Scheherazade, she would leave the story just as it was getting interesting, and say “aar parchi na, bakita nijey poro”
She was a grandmom I could display to all with pride, and certain smugness. Who else had a dida, who would wear shorts and get into the massive breakers of “Purir shomudra”, or wear jeans and be on horseback during a trekking trip at the age of 70, cap tilted rakishly on her head. And who would, while deep in pujo of her beloved Gopal, who, by the way, traveled everywhere with us, in his little Air India bag, would say “chandan, amakeo jeno ektu diyo”- we called it “karonbari” after that. When I went to my Tirupati trip (for larks, not religious fanaticism) this April, all I could think of was her, and that I was in the land of her Gopal… maybe, I was doing it for her.. god knows.
As I grew older, we drifted apart. Caught up in a whirlwind of life, I usually had less time to spend with someone, for whom time had slowed down. Always impatient, always running.
Memories come crowding in, jostling, pushing, shoving to be let out, to be given centre stage. My mother tells me, “write a few words in her memory”.. and once I start writing, I cant seem to stop.. words become pages, and its still not enough.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
bohemian rhapsody
Last weekend.. we decided to play "bohemian rhapsody".. so 11 of us.. friends form office, randomly packed up our bags, and headed out to "God's Own Country (that's Kerela, for the uninitiated) for a miniscule weekend break..
It was a dark and stormy nite.. well evening anyways.. so we arrived at the famous Majestic Bus Terminal, at 7.30, straight form office.. all wet and tired and ravenous.. and proceeded to eat everything in sight...
A 12 hour all night bus journey.... not pleasant by any standards.. driving through the night, jolting out of sleep every time I JUST gotten comfortable...
We were taking the Mysore highway route to Kerela... I woke up around 1.30, due to a biting wind coming through my window... to look outside and find that we were going through a dense forest. We had chosen a "full moon" weekend for our trip.. the leaves were filtered sliver in the moonlight.. it was magical.. very like the Enid Blyton stories we read in our childhood, where the fairies would come out to play..
Yet another time, I was woken up by a friend.. she was doing a "bhatakti hui atma" routine in the ½ inch space of the bus aisle... peered out of the window.. and was awestruck... mountains looming over us, blue-black in the moonlight.. far, far away one could see little pinpricks of light, coming from villages. The bus drove up and down winding roads, taking us from one crest to the next..
We all woke each other up, to gaze in wonder at the world... everyone was quiet.. the rest of the passengers were fast asleep.... dappled silver light, just for us..
Wrapped the shawl tightly around myself, opened the window.. and drank in the sight of mountains bathed in moonlight, forests dark and dense below us, in the valley... passed little villages, consisting of three houses, two shops and a masjid, with a spotless courtyard.. took me back to my trekking days in the Himalayas, and bus journeys just like these, meandering through hills and vales..
Passed through Calicut.. a signboard sprang out of nowhere, selling Johnson N Johnson marble tiles, told us of the fact.. was wondering how much it had changed since my cousin was here.. and trying to see whether IIM was anywhere in the vicinity, and which was the road that she used to stumble back late at night, after getting peacefully drunk with friends J
In a way, this bus ride was the highlight of the trip... the journey was magical...stared dreamily out of the window, and fell asleep with a smile on my face..
It was a dark and stormy nite.. well evening anyways.. so we arrived at the famous Majestic Bus Terminal, at 7.30, straight form office.. all wet and tired and ravenous.. and proceeded to eat everything in sight...
A 12 hour all night bus journey.... not pleasant by any standards.. driving through the night, jolting out of sleep every time I JUST gotten comfortable...
We were taking the Mysore highway route to Kerela... I woke up around 1.30, due to a biting wind coming through my window... to look outside and find that we were going through a dense forest. We had chosen a "full moon" weekend for our trip.. the leaves were filtered sliver in the moonlight.. it was magical.. very like the Enid Blyton stories we read in our childhood, where the fairies would come out to play..
Yet another time, I was woken up by a friend.. she was doing a "bhatakti hui atma" routine in the ½ inch space of the bus aisle... peered out of the window.. and was awestruck... mountains looming over us, blue-black in the moonlight.. far, far away one could see little pinpricks of light, coming from villages. The bus drove up and down winding roads, taking us from one crest to the next..
We all woke each other up, to gaze in wonder at the world... everyone was quiet.. the rest of the passengers were fast asleep.... dappled silver light, just for us..
Wrapped the shawl tightly around myself, opened the window.. and drank in the sight of mountains bathed in moonlight, forests dark and dense below us, in the valley... passed little villages, consisting of three houses, two shops and a masjid, with a spotless courtyard.. took me back to my trekking days in the Himalayas, and bus journeys just like these, meandering through hills and vales..
Passed through Calicut.. a signboard sprang out of nowhere, selling Johnson N Johnson marble tiles, told us of the fact.. was wondering how much it had changed since my cousin was here.. and trying to see whether IIM was anywhere in the vicinity, and which was the road that she used to stumble back late at night, after getting peacefully drunk with friends J
In a way, this bus ride was the highlight of the trip... the journey was magical...stared dreamily out of the window, and fell asleep with a smile on my face..
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