“Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.”
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Last year on April 9th, 2008, my sister Vinita Shivdasani nee Singha died. She went in for a minor surgery for gallstones and after, what was claimed to be a successful minor operation, her heart collapsed. SMS messages flew back and forth: ‘her heart is beating with meds’ ‘we are waiting and watching, pray’; the usual. But, it seemed the Lord had need of her. And before we knew it, it was over, her work here was finished.

She was our mischievous one, our little rebel, the butt of a lot of teasing and jokes,pranks we’ve never forgotten. The stories are legion and would provide material for another post altogether.  What was amazing and heartwarming for us, her family and friends who knew her from her childhood and through her rebellious years, was to learn at her funeral service how she’d grown both in her faith, maturity and kindness. The number of people she had helped and comforted, encouraged and stood by in Kolkata (Calcutta). How active a church member she had been. Hearing all this made us proud to say, “this was my sister”.

For those of us who look for signs; something interesting and very encouraging happened at the funeral service. During the speeches and prayers, through the tears and memories, the church was filled with a number of butterflies and one kept hovering around my brother-in-law. As the coffin was carried out, and we followed it up the aisle and through the door, that butterfly alighted several times on his shoulder and flew out into the churchyard with him.

This year, we had a memorial service at her grave. The poem above was engraved in its entirety on the deep grey granite stone on her grave. There was a ceremony arranged by her husband, Mohan and two sons, Aakash and Varun.  It was a befitting memorial to a person who had lighted upon the earth as a blithe spirit and left it, much like a butterfly. And like that lovely creature, she brought joy and smiles, laughter and hope to so many. And just how many, we learnt at her funeral and again this year at the graveyeard on April 9th. And once again, one butterfly from many in that green cemetery, chose to come and hover over the grave and around the flowers, it stayed while others came and went.

I like to believe it was a messenger to tell us that she was somewhere spreading joy and happiness, and like the poem that she was in the gentle wind that stirred the green leaves in the cemetery.

Here are some thoughts, some light, some not so light. Please feel free to add your own.

• Politeness and manners should never be mistaken for weakness
• Why be difficult, when with a little more effort, you can be impossible
• Loud and abrasive behaviour is not a sign of strength
• A doctor with an iota of compassion is a rare find and worth his weight in gold
• Greed is an offspring of one’s upbringing
• The family is one’s only last bastion
• Repay malice with kindness, it confuses everyone
• A mother-in-law is also a relative
• Information is power
• A friend is someone who accepts you on an as-is-where-is basis and doesn’t try to change you
• Work is a four-letter word and should be removed from a child’s vocabulary
• Bravery is not the absence of fear – that is stupidity
• Education increases one’s capacity to look beyond oneself
• Christmas while being the season of joy contains within it the seeds of Good Friday
• The million dollar question should be ‘is there life after birth?’
• A chameleon doesn’t change its colour, it only does so to blend in with its surroundings
• The only thing regal about a lion is his inertia

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and its turns,
As everyone of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When they might have won, had they stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit,
It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit!

Taken from encouragement poems

http://www.poem4today.com

The problem with the “rat race” that we all run today is that even if you do emerge a winner, you are still a rat which (with due apologies to the bard) by whatever name you give it, smells just as foul.

I find the above parody on the old quotation, which I unlocked from the vaults of my memory bank, to be tailor made to suit the situation of the stroke victim trying his damndest to travel the road to recovery. Lacks motivation? Sure! But whoever said that providing motivation to recover was part of the deal.

Brother you locate or create your own motivation. No outsider can provide it because no outsider can put himself in your shoes. Yes, you sail along the road or river to recovery on the strength of your breeze or wind.

How you create it is entirely up to you. Today I cannot provide tips to that. And speaking of motivation, the worst is the time you find yourself sitting alone in chasms and ravines of depression. These divots are so large they would make the Grand Canyon appear small and insignificant. No ropes! No grapple hooks! No, sadly there’s nothing at hand to help you climb out of these depths.

But then who said this was going to be a joy ride. “Joy”, I haven’t seen that bird in quite a while;  I have even forgotten what it looks like.

My sister, Vinita, died on the 9^th of April 2008. She was the youngest of us three siblings. I was told that she had gone in for a minor operation and that while she was on the operating table her heart forgot to do what it was supposed to. She was three years younger than I and she died. I reckon she was the lucky one.

Do I sound depressed? Life in a canyon can get quite tiresome. I used to be quite gregarious prior to the stroke. I enjoyed the company of friends and acquaintances and I think they enjoyed my company.

My social behaviour used to be described as  - gay (not in the modern sense of the word) happy go lucky. I was considered to be humourous and very witty. Of course, all that is a feature of the past, best forgotten and swept under the carpet or whatever.

Nowadays, the behaviour of others towards me at social gatherings is deferential, with a lot of concern, there is a strong hint of being condescending even, patronizing and I hate it with a gusto! Meeting people for the first time used to be a joyful adventure, one to be looked forward to with anticipation. This joy and fervour has now changed to apprehensive concern, bordering on naked fear.

Yes, I’ve changed considerably.

I have sometimes thought of taking up teaching assignments in training institutes near where I live. But then the thought of how the students might view a doddering, shuffling, octogenarian. And the fact that I would be providing a laugh to them with a target for ridicule and derision has quickly put an end to such ridiculous unrealistic aspirations, of an ancient wreck who is half lame, half blind with hardly any speech.

Alone, alone, all all alone

Alone on a wide, wide sea

And ne’er a saint took

Pity on my soul in agony

Last night I watched a programme on TV on the National Geographic channel. This features the FBI and some American prison where a prisoner was given severe punishment for his subversive behaviour with the other cell mates. The punishment meted out to him was “150 days of isolation”. They made a big song and dance about 150 days in isolation. I cannot understand what all the noise and fireworks were about. I feel I’ve been in “isolation” for all of last year; yes all 365 days. 150 days? No big deal!

Certain oddities occur as an aftermath to a stroke and remain with one even when walking along the road to recovery. As to whether these oddities remain with one for life; only time will tell I cannot comment on that. Some of the oddities are listed below, not necessarily in priority or severity but at random.

 Oddity – 1: By God’s grace I have retained my sight. By this I mean I am not blind but my vision does play tricks on me. I’m not sure whether its my vision or my mind that is the culprit. There is a tendency to hallucinate. For example; I might see a door as being left open when actually it is closed. My “left field vision” is definitely impaired. This results in my having nil vision on my left side. Often when I meet a person for the first time they probably think I am a very rude and socially crude person. This is because I have ignored their right hand which might have been extended in greeting. How do I tell them that in actual fact I have not seen the gesture and therefore have not taken cognizance of it?

Oddity – 2: Over, the last few days, I have developed the feeling of being pulled to my left. It is almost as if my centre of gravity has shifted. This disturbs or hampers my attempts at walking. Add to the shift of the centre of gravity, a vague feeling of being in a drunken stupor and then try to walk on a rope bridge. (I have mentioned this earlier at some point) and the simple task of “walking” takes on Herculean proportions.

The net result of this faulty vision is that I have learnt not to trust my sight. As a result of this if someone were to tell me that the Titanic was sinking through the road at 10 o’clock, I would give them the benefit of doubt and tend to believe it.

At times I see little dogs being chased by kids, a little older than toddlers across my path. Over a period of time I have learnt to ignore them. The normal average person cannot I suppose empathise with the stroke victim’s aversion to walking. But believe you me it is real.

Oddity – 3: Inability to sit for a length of time. I do not know the medical reasons

Odditiy – 4: At the risk of repeating myself I need to also mention the fact that my ability to speak and enunciate words has also been shot to hell and back.

And, whereas I once had a voice that was a deep and rich baritone. Mine was a voice which would penetrate through any furore at official meetings and draw attention to itself. I know, I have used it often to my advantage. Now all I am capable of is a slight squeaky sound that is absent mindedly ignored by all within ear shot.

Yes, I have had to make huge adjustments to continue the onerous task of living through an ordinary day. This adjustment is at the intellectual and emotional levels and also includes exclusion at social and personal levels.

Oddity – 5 : There is this story about an 85 year old fellow who went to the doctor and told him

 “Doc can I lower my sex drive”.

 The doctor was taken aback and asked him “Granddad how old are you”?

 Replied the old codger – “85 years today!”

To which the surprised doctor asked “ What do you mean “lower your sex drive”?

The old man replied “it’s all in my head, Doc, it’s all in my head!”

I try not to laugh too loudly at this anecdote, because my life now runs much along the same lines.

I have already mentioned the names and characteristics of two companions who insist on accompanying one on this road to recovery. To recount: The first was “depression”, that often times developed into ravines that are deeper and more stark than the Grand Canyon; I understand that this may be an exaggeration although I have been given to understand that Americans tend to exaggerate the size and quality of their possessions, perhaps slightly more than I do, especially if they’re New Yorkers!

Now I don’t know if this is true today, but at one time it may have been. We have a popular old joke here in India that goes like this. The yank and Banta Singh. Old Banta went to the airport to receive the American he was told was a VIP as far as his company was concerned. By the time they were one hour out of the airport Banta Singh was fed up with the American bragging about the size and height of the skyscrapers in “Noo yourk”. When they eventually came by the Qutab Minar the American was completely awestruck by its height. “Gawd almighty” exclaimed the yank, what on earth is that?

Banta replied laconically; “don’t know it wasn’t there yesterday!”

Anyway getting back to the main theme of my narrative, I have two pieces of news for you. One is good news. The other is bad news. The good news is that on this road to recovery from stroke, one has more co-travellers for company. The bad news is their names. One is christened, “frustration” and the other is “anger”. They are both very closely related to each other, one could say they were almost twins or clones from the same parent: “impatience”.

Frustration arises normally from the individual’s inability to communicate clearly or properly which often times results in the other person having to respond with either a “begging your pardon?” , an eh? Or what? Depending on the family backgrounds and schooling that the other has received. All in all this results in one having to repeat oneself many times which becomes very tiring thereby preparing the ground for frustration to enter the picture.

Another reason is that because of one’s numerous inabilities one is forced to ask for help/assistance from others for innumerable favours such as escorting one to the bathroom or to the dining room as also for putting on/off the lights, the fan or TV. Nearly every activity needs assistance which is not always forthcoming. One calls and the other does not answer – another cause for frustration.

One has dealt all of one’s worthy life with people of average or average plus intelligence. Welcome to the world where thanks to my inability to communicate clearly, the rest of the world appears to have come from Mars. Or if I were the alien from Mars on a reconnaisance mission to earth - with my limited powers of communication - I would go back to Mars and report the complete absence of intelligent life on planet Earth.

It is amazing and I compliment myself on not having had another seizure, just by trying to deal with people in general, people who find it hard to second-guess me and those whom I have to try and second-guess. Please don’t ask me for examples. Repeating and reminding myself of the many incidents of such stupidity exhibited would force me to commit hara-kiri!

Anyone who is bedridden or bound to the bed will be familiar with the term “bedsores”. These are horrible little eruptions resemble sores, because they are sores. Hence the nomenclature. They are uncomfortable to the point of being downright painful. As is the case with most medical problems, the old dictum of prevention being superior to cure applies very aptly here.

These little volcanic eruptions are caused on the back because of the tendency of an individual who, for whatever reason, tends to spend long periods of time lying supine on a bed. Take it from me, these are best avoided. Common sense dictates that the most effective way of avoiding bedsores is by not spending too much time on one’s back in bed. Mind you, post stroke, this is easier said than done.

Consider the facts: one cannot read; it is difficult to sit for long without developing a pain in the tailbone region; what alternative is there but to return to bed. Yes! This is worse than the forbidden fruit, only there is no garden of Eden!

In fact if the truth be told this was the factor that is the genesis of this written account – an effort to keep myself off the bed.

So far I have dwelt on the letter of one’s fight against the trials and limitations one experiences in cases such as mine. More important, perhaps, is the spirit with which one travels the road to recovery from a stroke.

In fact, I’d go as far as saying that the spirit is about 75% of the battle.

But, what of the spirit? That is the natural question that arises. Essentially it’s the spirit of fighting! That part somewhere deep inside one which says to itself and all else, who care to listen, “Never say die”. In practical terms it means having the guts, the zeal, the energy, the strength, the desire, to struggle seven days a week; no Sundays off!  It’s this spirit and gumption that one draws upon to pull oneself up from the deep chasms of loneliness and despair and desperation.  The spirit to kick yourself in the backside and egg yourself on even when redemption seems lost and disappears over the horizon into an eternity that is bleak, cold and far too distant to contemplate.

Yes, this spirit is the equivalent to the strength, the stamina and perseverance one is able to generate from within one’s self. Because it won’t come from anywhere else! That I am sure of. I know because I’ve tried.

Family and friends do help by assisting this “spirit”, but one cannot bank on that assistance. It may or may not be forthcoming.

However, the inevitable question that does arise is, what if the spirit falters? Then what?

I have found that the normal or average human being has tremendous reserves. A large portion, of which even he may not be aware. One needs to delve deep within one’s self in order to call up these reserves and often times, I have found, they answer the clarion call.

There is also no shame in leaning on external support if one can find it. This may be in the form and shape of one’s friend, spouse, children or even work associates. Together they should see you through your lean period. Remember to use all you spare no effort.

Remember the stakes are high.

You may have heard of a place called “No man’s Land” well now let me welcome you to “one man’s land”.

Maximum population: three, “me , myself and I” or “thee, thyself and thou”.

An American singer of yesteryear once sang a beautiful song, the lines went something like this: “the autumn leaves drift by my window, the autumn leaves of red and gold”…which brings me to the central theme of this section. With the advent of autumn, the trees shed their leaves. With the advent of a stroke the individual sheds his dignity, self respect and most other terms that are synonymous of the same. Before the stroke I was the provider and protector of my family and in return they looked up to me and called me the equivalent of Bwana!

After the stroke I cannot even cross the road on my own. How on earth can anyone hold me in awe?

Earlier on I never had to raise my voice to get the respect of domestic help. One indication with my eyes was more than sufficient. Now I feel they laugh at me and any vestige of respect they might have had has disappeared out of the window. Can you blame them? How can anyone respect a creature they have just seen and noted a while back when giving the blighter a bath or helping him take a pee?

Earlier on I had a voice that was commanding and was a deep baritone, I believe it demanded and received attention even when in a roomful of agitation. I could teach a classroom full of fifty young students, my voice carried to each individual without much effort. Now, all I can manage is a pitiful squeal that is easily brushed aside and consequently ignored. I cannot put my point across in a group of four because the vehicle of communication, my voice is all but defunct.

Earlier on my gait was described as an (almost) arrogant swagger now it is a crippled shuffle. You cannot blame the world for its changed opinion of me.

When in college I used to tell my students that the individual’s perception moulds the truth and brought it home to rest. Likewise the situation I have just described is that, I suppose, of most, if not all stroke victims.

Now, there are many types of responses one may have to this. You could throw your hands up in defeat and wallow in loads of self pity but I don’t think that would bring you any comfort or joy. I am not an authority on the subject and can only speak on the basis of my own personal experience.

When the oppression becomes too much to handle I tend to adopt the silent mode. This constitutes erecting walls of silence around myself. These walls do not actually protect me or steer off the onslaught from the external world but they do afford temporary relief.

Anyway, as I always say: “ to each his own”.

The ultimate clincher came the other night when my wife out of exasperation shouted or snapped at me, I retorted in a loud voice telling her she had no business shouting at me; to which she pointedly asked me; “Or else?? What will you do?” And I realized to my shock and horror that there was absolutely nothing I could do.

This exchange brought to mind an amusing scene from one of Sanjeev Kumar’s old movies (Bollywood) called “Pati Patni or woh’ ( Husband, Wife and ‘Them’).

The husband is in the habit of yelling at his wife, “bring me the water for my bath; or else…”  And each time she goes hurrying off to fetch the hot water.

However, one night she decides to call his bluff. So when he yells “get me the hot water for my bath, or else…”  she asks, “or else what?”

He meekly replies “I’ll bathe in cold water damn it!”

I refer to the area contained within these walls as my “silent well of loneliness”…. sole proprieter and occupant – myself – Dalip K Singha.

Not being conversant with the urdu language and literature. The following may be an imperfect mish-mash of incorrect quotations and facts, so before I proceed, I offer my profound apologies to you, dear reader and beg your patience and understanding. This, I believe is what emperor Jahangir said when he first laid eyes on the completed Shalimar Gardens in Kashmir. The story is that he was so stricken and over awed by its natural beauty and charm that he wrote the following verse:

“If there is a paradise on earth

            It is this!

            It is this!

            It is this!”

Let me; in all humility present the flip side of this coin of appreciation, if there is…

A stream, from its course in far-off mountains, passing through every kind and description of countryside, at last reached the sands of the desert. Just as it had crossed every other barrier, the stream tried to cross this one, but found that as fast as it ran into the sand, its waters disappeared.

It was convinced, however, that its destiny was to cross this desert, and yet there was no way. Now a hidden voice, coming from the desert itself, whispered: “The wind crosses the desert, and so can the stream.”

The stream objected that it was dashing itself against the sand, and only getting absorbed: that the wind could fly, and this was why it could cross a desert.

“By hurtling in your own accustomed way you cannot get across. You will either disappear or become a marsh. You must allow the wind to carry you over, to your destination.

But how could this happen? “By allowing yourself to be absorbed in the wind.”

This idea was not acceptable to the stream. After all, it had never been absorbed before. It did not want to lose its individuality. And, once having lost it, how was one to know that it could ever be regained?

“The wind,” said the sand, “performs this function. It takes up water, carries it over the desert, and then lets it fall again. Falling as rain, the water again becomes a river.”

“How can I know that this is true?” “It is so, and if you do not believe it, you cannot become more than a quagmire, and even that could take many, many years. And it certainly is not the same as a stream.”

“But can I not remain the same stream that I am today?”

“You cannot in either case remain so,” the whisper said. “Your essential part is carried away and forms a stream again. You are called what you are even today because you do not know which part of you is the essential one.”

When it heard this, certain echoes began to arise in the thoughts of the stream. Dimly it remembered a state in which it — or some part of it? — had been held in the arms of a wind. It also remembered — or did it? — that this was the real thing, not necessarily the obvious thing to do.

And the stream raised its vapor into the welcoming arms of the wind, which gently and easily bore it upwards and along, letting it fall softly as soon as they reached the roof of a mountain, many, many miles away. And because it had its doubts, the stream was able to remember and record more strongly in its mind the details of the experience. It reflected, “Yes, now I have learned my true identity.”

–Sufi Parable

taken from http://tow.charityfocus.org
My StumbleUpon Page
http://technorati.com/faves