Tuesday, December 21, 2021

            THE PERSONAL PANDEMIC






I lost my mother to the pandemic. Not in flesh, not in blood… but in spirit. Three years ago, my mother was diagnosed with dementia, which later turned out to be Alzheimer’s. It’s a diagnosis that withers a family, dismantles its hopes of happiness to smithereens. I knew what awaited my mother — a psychological limbo. When the doctors said that medicines would delay her cognitive decline, my sole objective in life was to make her present — the only shred of certainty she was clinging on to — as happy and bearable as possible.  

 

Keeping that in mind, in February 2020, I hosted an elaborate bash for my parents’ 45th marriage anniversary. “Do you think we will not live to see the 50th?” my mother joked. I wasn’t so sure. I still remember that day when she couldn’t recognise many who’d come to join the celebrations, but she was happy and jubilant. And that’s all that mattered because happiness was the only prescription to making Alzheimer’s bearable to us as a family. In my mind, I’d decided to fly down to Delhi every two months to spend time with my mother before her mind completely descended into void.  




 

Two months later, my mother was condemned to house arrest. She wasn’t alone, Covid-19 did it to the elderly the world over. As India imposed strictest possible lockdown to contain the spread of the virus, my mother would have to find her world at home. This, at a moment when the doctors had advised us to let her socialise more. Alzheimer’s wasn’t the only demon mum was fighting; it was also years of untreated depression. She needed to be out and about to discover and distract herself. If there was any hope of that, the lockdown proved to be the final nail in the coffin. My family began to witness a sharp decline in her attention spans that had already shortened over the years. She found herself lost in her own home. Staying in an indefinite period of confinement, she even forgot her partner of 45 years — my father. She suffered hallucinations, mourned the death of a husband who was very much alive. My brother became her only connect with the present.  

 

Staying in Dubai and caught up in the rigours of a job, I was oblivious to the final descent that had already begun. My father’s standing instructions to the family at large were not to tell me about the exact nature of the deterioration. This, he thought, was his way of protecting me, even if it meant casually saying that she had been stable.  

 

The dark truth revealed itself to me on the day of Diwali. As I called to wish my family, my brother seemed reluctant to talk to me. He would insist I speak to my father or mum. It wasn’t until I pressed him for the reasons that he told me about the rapidly worsening nature of my mother’s Alzheimer’s. Within a week, I took a flight and went to meet my mother. She wasn’t around when I finally reached my residence. I waited anxiously about what I was about to see. As the doorbell rang, I opened the door and was relieved to see my uncle and mother. “Thank god,” I told myself, “She looks alright.” She entered the room and sat next to me. I thought we would be sharing a mother-daughter moment. She touched my hand and asked, “What’s your name, beta?”  

 

Today, my memories of mum are neatly compartmentalised into the time before and after this moment. In the time before, she had been a woman who had expectations from her retired life. She had been wanting to visit England, a prospect I kept planning for every year fruitlessly. Having a sweet tooth, she learnt baking. She wanted to run after grandchildren who were yet to be born. Somewhere in the middle of this daydreaming, a nightmare was unfolding. 

 

As someone who was not living this nightmare day in and day out, I felt obliged to put out a strong front. It didn’t mean that I would resort to assuring my family that mum would be alright. Rather, it meant working towards creating a system that would make my mother’s life easier. Making notes for her to remember things. Putting small chits with her name and address in her purse lest she head out and forget where she lives. The world loves the idea of a strong woman till adversity hits and challenges our resilience. My strength came from looking at the silver linings. My mother was still alive during a pandemic that had already claimed several lives. If there was one prayer that I kept repeating to my god on loop, it was for Covid to stay away from my family.  

 

What we fear most also has a way of turning into reality.  Covid did enter my household in April this year. This was a time when Delhi was exasperated with shortage of oxygenated beds and proper medical care. Alzheimer’s and Covid turned out to be a heady concoction. Not knowing she is infected, my mother would reach out to the nurse who’d been appointed for her. Fearing that she would be infected, the nurse left soon after. If the oxygen levels were dipping at an alarming rate and she had to be hospitalised, who would take her? The rest of the family was already weak and bedridden. There were many good samaritans who would volunteer, but could a woman who experiences hallucinations remain in company of strangers in PPE? There was no light at the end of this tunnel. 

 

Mum eventually recovered. It took a lot of help from friends and foes — whether it was about having food delivered at our home or getting medicines and concentrators. But it came at a cost. She went deeper into her hallucinations. 

 

I have lived through much of this period as a spectator living in another country. What hit hard was the knowledge of my mother’s mortality. In the time of crisis, we seek faith because scientific facts don’t always appeal to the heart. Moreover, the human mind does not accept that life comes to an end. We create ideas such as afterlife in order to convince ourselves that something of our loved ones will be retained. 


I had gone through all stages of grief when Covid hit my family and transported me back to denial. It was another stark reminder of my mother’s limited time on the planet. I needed closure that would not come so easily? What does closure even mean in the time of the pandemic? This is an alienating virus. It demands that we live in our own silos and interact with people virtually. This is a consolation we give ourselves every time we experience loss — whether in flesh and blood or in mind. We are collectively in a limbo. For people like me, however, the limbo has an additional baggage — that of survivor’s guilt. I often wonder what am I really guilty of. The knowledge that I have escaped the nightmare that my brother and father live through every day of their lives. The knowledge that I might just be experiencing moments of happiness at a time when mum might be hallucinating. I survive while my family simply exists. This is what my conscience tells me every day. 

 

Survivor's guilt is the mind’s way of acquainting you with your privilege, while also undoing your self at the same time. I often think about how I have survived with the survivor’s guilt. By looking the other way. This has meant burying my head into work. Sometimes, inventing work for myself so there’s no room to think. If this means fewer phone calls home, so be it. Survivor’s guilt hits the hardest when you have empty moments in life. I fear such moments because inadvertently the image of my mother comes to mind. The knowledge that I might just be abandoning her in her time of need. Sure, I can blame the Covid-related travel risks for my infrequent visits to Delhi now. But in my heart, I know that this is not the case. Is survivor’s guilt also the mind’s way of being hard on yourself? Even if so, it is penance. Waking up every morning to numb yourself to a sense of loss, that has been my way of coping with mum’s rapid cognitive decline. 

 

In the context of Covid-19, we tend to associate survivor’s guilt with those who have experienced loss in more tangible terms — death. But there are many of us who continue to be in this constant state of loss. Think about it, when was the last time we experienced devastation at this scale? While the world has changed, the terms on which it operates have not. Money still buys us good life, which sometimes means as little as affording best treatment should things go wrong. For those who are employed, work from home has often, if not always, meant longer working hours. Given how the pandemic has impacted various sectors, we are also living with a constant sense of dispensability. If in pre-pandemic times, we could simply pack our bags and go anywhere in the world to ‘recharge ourselves’, it’s not so simple doing so at a time when many countries have imposed travel restrictions. 


When it started, we romanticised lockdowns as the much-needed ‘pause’ we needed from the hustle bustle of our lives. But in this new normal, where individuals are so easily replaceable at work and at home, we have been denied a basic coping strategy — distraction. What can possibly distract you when Covid dominates living room and water cooler conversations? Somebody or the other has been experiencing loss, reminding me of the impending doom that's lurking in my own backyard. Every day has been about picking up the pieces and starting afresh. As the virus mutates and rears its ugly head, we are experiencing burnouts, anxiety, a sense of languishing. There is almost a sense of urgency in naming the feelings we have not felt before because it gives us a faux sense of being in control. The truth is, we aren’t.  

 

I have often tried to dissect the origins of this grief and guilt I have been experiencing.  To understand how the virus has not only changed lives, but also transformed people, The New York Times sent its reporters to Bergamo province in northern Italy, which was worst-hit by the pandemic. It is here that hospitals became makeshift morgues, scenes of absolute helplessness offered initial signs to the Western world about the absolute horrors the virus could wreak. Interestingly, in a detailed report, NYT found that people who had lost their loved ones to Covid-19 had diametrically opposite reactions to the crisis. Some wanted to be left alone, the virus had pushed them to it. Some sought company fearing the loneliness the virus had subjected them to. There was anger against the government for letting the situation go out of hand. There was anger against gods too. Every emotion was underlined not simply by loss, but a survivor’s guilt and that had changed the very fabric of people’s lives. It had even turned them to substance, alcohol and cigarettes.

 

While it is a mental condition, survivor’s guilt manifests itself through depression and anxiety, both of which have been rising post-pandemic. A study conducted by Columbia’s School of Public Health observed that the number of mental health cases that had been reported had increased by 21 and 24 per cent respectively. In Asia, it has been a staggering 18 per cent. According to the World Health Organisation, one in 13 globally suffers from clinical anxiety, while close to 264 million people of all ages suffer from depression. Enduring loss for those who already suffer from these mental health conditions has been particularly difficult.  

 

They say the wound is the place from which light enters you. That light entered into my life in the form of writing and therapy. Going through my own stages of grief, I began to write about my mother’s condition only to see it resonate widely. I vividly remember the first time I wrote about my mother’s battle with Alzheimer’s. There was a fear that writing about her would invite stigma. Moreover, it was also opening of personal wounds to a public that I would never see or meet. But writing also articulated the journey the mind was going through. 


This sweet spot between acceptance and reconstruction was discovered by me, thanks to a therapist who chose to show me the larger picture. With her, I embarked on a journey to understand my own mind and realised that while grief is personal, it is also universal. I also confronted that thought that I’d buried in the subconscious — I was never having it as easy as I thought. It also took immense courage to get up day after day, and carrying on. You see, sometimes, survival itself takes courage. Once I reached this point of realisation, it was easy to rationalise a few things. What I have learnt in this journey is that the greatest gift we can give ourselves is healing — beginning a constructive dialogue with our own minds, talking back to the voice that deems us guilty of survival. Our salvation lies in this conversation with ourselves.  

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

I have almost always abused this space by addressing my anxieties, the many 'rights' and the 'wrongs' that have been done. Make no mistake, I am a damsel in stress, not distress. This explains why I have inflicted numerous poorly articulated posts on this space without caring if at all these words will ever be read by any mortal. Enraged by the selfish nature of the writing, the space too has given me a befitting reply---a silence in which I introspect my  life and its many 'miseries'. For the last four years (ever since I started the blog), it seems that I have been waiting for Godot without knowing who or what Godot is. Is it success? Money? Love? Debauchery? Godot is definitely not success or money...these can be acquired way too easily. He is definitely not love, because he claims to come my way often. He is perhaps a debauched traveller. As perverse as you are in your emotions, but a lot more silent. Your patience is a journey too, at the end of which lies a heartbreak. In the guise of lover, he is a stranger. He is a lover as long as you are a stranger. A patron as long as you are the Petrarchan mistress. In few days, several hours, many minutes and numerous seconds, he will travel through life to find his sense of self. He will cremate you in his heart and bury you in his mind. Like a trapped soul, you will continue to wander and wonder if he will ever put his hand around your waist again and murmur on your lips, "Dearest". Your heart pounding every second and chanting "Come as you are... not as a friend but as who you were".

Next morning, when a furious sun absorbs the water on your face, Godot shall be making new memories with new strangers. His lens would see them all, it would be the mute witness of his tryst with life. You will shed a tear every day in solitude till you become perverse and say "Goodbye blue sky!"

And that is the day another part of you will quietly die.

Heartless! Godless!! And now Godotless!!!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Late Dorian Gray

Beautiful?
Forever.
Handsome?
Rarely.
Young?
Always.
Vain?
Destined to be.
Loved?
Rarely.
Killed?
Himself.
Soul?
Sold.
Name?
Dorian Gray.

Amiss

We are no V. Woolf whose mind is a locked closet nor are we J. Austen whose truths are often 'universally acknowledged'. Unlike these women, words have stopped befriending us. Obscurity is our opium. We find our unhappiness in our bliss and find our failures in our successes. We find our refuge in our passivity and fall back on pills that keep us numb. Having conditioned ourselves in a way that makes sure we remain 'unaffected' no matter what happens, we make sure that no emotion---love or hatred---can move us. As for me, I am an obscurist. Quite often, in a moment of self-introspection, I have wondered if I am half alive or half dead...if I am living or merely existing. The answers have never come easily to me, neither to those with whom I have wanted to share the aforementioned anxieties.  I survive in the zone between happyness and existential angst. Uncertainty is my only companion.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Words Apart

The worst kind of crisis for a mind looking for redemption is loss of words. When she had words, she did not have a story to tell. Now she has a yarn to spin, but words are not her companion anymore.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Jeffrey Archer: On the Write Track (May 2008 interview, A Prisoner of Birth)



His life is stuff bestsellers are made of. There are scams, trials and of course, his favorite theme, prison. All this and more makes Lord Jeffrey Archer a man worthy of a tête-à-tête. Currently the author is travelling across the country for the first time for Landmark's Jeffrey Archer tour. He is actively promoting his latest book, A Prisoner of Birth, a rags to riches tale of a man wrongly convicted for a crime.




In a rather candid chat with HT City, Lord Archer not only talks about his latest book, but also clears the air about the rumours related to his writing, and, of course, why he wouldn't really want Hilary Clinton to be another Florentyna Kane (The Prodigal Daughter).



The rendezvous starts on a rather unexpected note. Before we pose a question, it is Archer who throws one for us. The question is --- "Have you read the book?" It's only after a loud "YES" that the chat progresses. "India is a great place. People actually read books here." This coming from a man who has sold more than 130 million copies worldwide. "One hundred thirty only? I don't know how many more I have sold in India because of the piracy," he says.



Many reviews have stated that the book is explicitly based on The Count of Monte Cristo, and Archer, on his part admits to being influenced. "Well, I's say it is a modern version of The Count of Monte Cristo. That book is 1,700 pages. It was written at a time when there was no radio, no television, and very little theatre. People read big books then. Things have changed now." Well said Lord Archer. But when quizzed about his own stint in the jail and if it had influenced the plot, the author couldn't help but get into a diplomatic mode. While trying to settle in his chair, he says, "We all use the knowledge that we have. You write about your experiences. For instance when I go back to England after spending 7-8 days in India, I would have an Indian story. Here I have come across situations and people I would want to write about." So, is this the formula for a bestseller? Apparently not. "Then you would have been writing a book," says the author unassumingly. "You write when you have a story to tell. It's a god gifted. And of course you write about what you know. Jane Austen wrote about a small village and how a couple of sisters get married. And these went on to become the five of the greatest novels ever written. Write what you know about. Otherwise there will be four pages of sex and four pages of violence, and then four pages of a story. "



He spoke about the first woman president of America in Florentyna Kane, the lead protagonist of The Prodigal Daughter. An obvious question is if he's routing for Hilary Clinton for the US presidential elections. He laughs his heart out and then responds, " Twenty years later, the Americans have woken up. I would actually like Barack Obama to win. I have followed the elections very closely. I think he is very exciting. I believe he's beaten Mrs. Clinton already and he can beat Senator Mc Cain." But what about the buzz that Florentyna Kane's character was closely modeled on Golda Meir, Margaret Thatcher and Indira Gandhi? " By the time I wrote the book, there had been 5 women PMs in the world. What Mrs. Gandhi, Mrs. Thatcher and Mrs. Meir had in common was their toughness. As for Mrs Thatcher, I worked for 11 years with her. So it would be difficult to write a book and not be influenced by her. By then there had been 5 women PMs in the world. In fact Mrs. Thatcher once said that to beat a man you have to be twice as good, and she was, in fact, twice as good." One of the most cherished moment: When he invited Beatles to Brasenose College to perform for a charity event. " I kept in touch with Paul Mc Cartney after that!"

While the readers just can't get enough of him, his detractors, however, have had a mixed opinion about his writings. One of the more popular rumours revolves around his wife Mary, and many have gone to the extent of claiming that she often writes for him. When quizzed about the same, Archer loses his composure and points out, "Yeah, my wife was in prison and writing the books for me. My wife could not write a book to save her life. It's been the most ridiculous statement ever made. I will tell you a little secret, when I went to prison, stupid people stopped saying that someone else wrote the books. I wrote three books from there and they went on to become number one. She's a scientist. I can't write her books either."



Moving on to a more cheerful topic (read: his blog), the author professes his love for blogging and feels it's an easier way of connecting to a number of readers. "I get 542,000 hit on my site last month and about 25 per cent of my emails are from Indians." Since he's also a cricket buff we asked if he'll be catching up on the ongoing IPL series. He was planning to watch one on Saturday evening, but confessed that Twenty-20 wasn't his cup of tea. "I prefer to follow test matches." So was there anything else that he was looking forward from his Indian tour. "England beating India, five matches in a row. But then, that's not possible."



For someone so prolific yet controversial, one couldn't help but ask if being controversial comes naturally to Archer. "Well, I have not been controversial for the past three years. I have written six books, and have been doing a lot of charity work." Any regrets in life? "No way, you've just got one life, live it as best as you can. Work hard and live your life." Now that's what we call living live king-size!



Archer's favourite authors of Indian origin


Salman Rushdie
VS Naipaul
Arundhati Roy

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The Bed of Agony

Witness to the love
Long lived or long forgotten,
It stands blind and mute,
Not tall, yet firm.

Soft is the surface,
The scent is sweet.
Don’t forget the hardness
That lies low and beneath.

The warmth of the bed
Is like love itself.
It is tender and fragile,
Almost like a lover’s sigh.

The bed often growls
In a joyful pain.
Over it’s subtle top
The lovers reign.

Its sheets are often wet
With desire and glutton.
As the moonlight falls,
The bed shines with passion


No rose adorns it,
Yet it feels the bliss.
The stains fade in a day,
The memory lasts a lifetime.