Brother

He leans out front on the car seat 
To take more of the sights in. 
It's been years since he's travelled these roads.
His neck craning out
Looks tender, vulnerable. 
His swallow moves 
his Adam's Apple 
Down then up. 
Or is it the other way? 

In that moment 
He reminds me most of Papa
The father we both shared 
and did not share. 
But whose troubles and cares 
We both took on. 
We nursed Papa 
We both called him 'Papa.'
And Papa loved it. 

My stomach drops as 
I see other traits of Papa.
His domesticity
The way he hates troubling anyone 
The way he was ready to drop my girl to the railway station 
The way he calls me, the only one who does now, after Papa, 'Bommy'. 
Papa told me it was doll in Tulu. 
The silence. 
This man has lived years in the depths of his being. 
Everything now, then, is a secret. 
It all reads like sorrow. 
Just as it was with Papa. 

But when he smiles or tells a story
It's fascinating always. 
The delight fades the years, 
Drops the drudgery of a US life
And it's like we are children again
Giggling, laughing 
Our cheeks turning pink
Eyes alight with easy mischief.
The story gets told slowly 
I nod impatient 
But it's a good story. 
Always a fun story. 

And then he turns away
Watches the road again
Becomes my Papa again 
Who in the end started taking 
no space 
Who shrank and withdrew. 
Like he seems to be doing now. 

Good men both. 
Kind men both. 
The kindest I have known. 
They never speak of their battles. 
The silence stretches ahead like the roads. 
The throat clogs. 
Why do good, kind men 
Make your heart ache with worry 
And swell you up with love 
So that the tears escape
Unbidden 
Listening to a song by BTS 
About life going on. 

I won’t be able to write from the grave

I won't be able to write from the grave 
So let me tell you what I love: 
Long drives with music and the laughter of friends, food,
old books, K-Dramas and BTS, 
Pain meds that also help one sleep, 
Dressing up and sex. 

All life that's short (scandalous, loved) but well-lived - mostly alone. 

Inspired by Fanny Howe.

Space

We need to take up space.

Now, here, we need to lay claim to land, to air, to other people, and take space, and shout how good we are. Special. Talented. Intelligent.

On LinkedIn, we have to be thrilled to announce; on Insta we are lit. Everything is lit. On Facebook, on WhatsApp, we have to assert our faith in Om Shanti. Om Sadgati, even while gleeful that some more baby Muslims died somewhere in the world.

Elsewhere, in the world we kill. We have to. We say it’s to survive.

This is the relentless striving to forget that we are infinitesimal beings in an uncaring universe.

This is the lesson after death.

We need to take up space.

We need our genes and only ours to populate this world.

We need to take up space.

The dead can’t claim spaces except in the mind, in our memories.

And only briefly.

That’s how fleeting everything is.

This is the innocence that’s lost after a loved one dies.

I tried really hard to think of a book I read this year that I liked and aside from S L Bhyrappa’s Uttarakanda which I read a few weeks back, and which was sadly reductive and problematic, I really couldn’t think of anything.

I realized then that I really couldn’t even remember what my life was this year. Or the last. Or the one before that. So I looked through my pictures and it hit me.

I spent three years absolutely stressed out and stretched thin. And then, this year, just when the angst was getting too much, when I thought the mere money issue would break me, something did give, and it was that Papa finally died. He was good about it. He went as he promised he would without troubling me.

But he went and that troubles me deeply. I can breathe but now I don’t remember the breaths I take.

I met my brother after eight years. As always, he supported me, making me do horrible math instead of letting me watch a sunset. But he keeps the books. He keeps me sane. He keeps me protected from bankruptcy.

I did a lot of work as Papa was going, after he left.

I took a three hour session immediately after the funeral. The batch called me Amitabh from Mohabbatein. I haven’t seen the movie.

I got my fake nails removed a day after his funeral, for instance.

On day five, I had a book launch.

On day eleven, we had organised a thank you lunch at the hospice centre.

On day thirteen, I sent a polite, slightly sentimental text to all my mother’s relatives inviting them for the memorial. They didn’t show up. So I got rid of toxic family in a matter of a week.

I made new families. I suddenly became the local guardian to a few kids I initially couldn’t stand.

My ties with my ARMY family tightened and banded us together, quite like BTS is. For life.

I went on a memory trip to Mangalore and Kasaragod trying to find my father. In the same vein, I interviewed his ex colleagues to find out more about my father.

I did two more book launches.

I made a new friend who along with my old-new friends took me out for late night drives and made me laugh and laugh and sing and laugh.

I lost a best friend to acquaintanceship. He wanted to reduce us to people we casually know around Bangalore.

I walked out.

I am getting very good at walking out with minimum fuss.

A veritable rolling stone.

I realized very quickly that the societal gaze changes when only two women manage a household. In this age too. So I sought a community in the neighbourhood and nurtured it. I also had two very loud, very fiesty fights with men who idiotically tried to bully me. Guess who lost?

I taught batches. Perhaps six or seven during and after the death. I worked sincerely on the classes but tardily on the written feedback. I couldn’t sit in front of a computer.

I took extra work pro-bono some, a little something in others and tried to spread the love of poetry and storytelling and assertive communication around.

I dated. One disastrous date immediately after Papa passed.

And more decently after. I realized my needs have changed. I crave intimacy, sincerity, and romance. But I panic about being in a committed relationship. And I am offended when I am not considered for one even when I explicitly say casual, easy is what I want. It’s all too silly. It’s claiming space.

I wrote a story.

I wrote a few essays.

I downsized the garden.

I attended an engagement.

I learnt to make the perfect Mallu Chaaya just the way I like it.

I took a trip to Mysore to really see what the fuss was. The fuss was good. There was unending laughter, beautiful scenery, Joan Baez along the Kabini, food, and a new family that I fell in love with instantly.

Then I suffered through mastitis for two and a half months and thereby found a girl I adore and have adopted.

I barely recovered, met a lover, and for one entire week lived in absolute bliss. We fell sick together and he turned to God, and I wished him well and well away from me though I still hanker for our chemistry.

I started a new community around short stories to spark dialogue, debate, and help people recognise echo chambers even as they navigate opposing viewpoints. I play prankster, moderator, and general fire-setter and fire-diffuser, but so far we’ve not harmed nor been harmed by anyone.

I fell ill. UTI.

I fell ill. Allergic rhinitis.

I fell ill. Flu.

I fell ill. Known gut issue.

I fell ill. Flu.

I feel out of sorts. Perimenopause.

I started eating less from June.

I don’t sleep much still.

I binge on K-Dramas but mostly BTS content.

I drive listening to BTS.

I cry in the car easily still.

I met my brother after years. We took pictures, celebrated at Bangalore Club, shared cigarettes and laughter after years, told stories, sang songs.

Then in three days, I attended another funeral in Pune. My sister’s father passed away in September. We did much of the same things. We ate food, gossiped all day, laughed, cried, danced, listened to music and rain. I fucked myself over. Again. Fathers dying is not a good look for me.

So space.

What better way to claim space than attend weddings? I attended a total of three in a span of two months. I wasn’t irritable. I was happy for them but o it’s all such elaborate space claiming.

Men text. Flirt. Demand pictures. Talk fucking. Lie. Are idiotic enough to get caught in them. Disappear. I truly am a rolling stone now. Smooth as butter. An unparalleled player. But some conversations linger and make even me long distantly. It’s all to take up space.

I cleaned out my cupboards, my clothes.

We drove to Mysore twice again.

So. This was a year I lived. Thrived.

It’s OK I don’t remember most of it. I got through it all with others. By myself I wouldn’t have recovered from seeing Papa’s body explode in the electric furnace. The way his recently surgeried femur brace flew a few inches off the furnace as the Kanthara soundtrack played. I wouldn’t have gotten through without the laughter my girls bring me, the kindness and sensitivity of my guy friends, because holding your father’s bones and ashes and immersing it into the sea and river and washing it off your hands is brutal. Nothing prepares you for it. And then the taking up space business feels absurd. A Samuel Beckett theatre production come to life.

But this is Papa’s lesson too.

To live well, in comfort. To eat well. To dress well. To celebrate. To open our house and hearts to people. If they prove unworthy, it’s on them. To look at everyone with empathy, friendliness, kindness.

No one will remember anything. But perhaps some will.

I add: to live in integrity, honesty, and freedom. I am ruthless. If someone or something doesn’t spark joy or intelligence or kindness, I shut them out.

Papa’s death and this year has taught me that life is too fucking short. And we don’t even remember anything at the end of it. No point spending space, and time, and emotion on waste.

Like Uttarakhanda. What a waste their lives were – all the characters in the story. They did what with the space they took? Nothing. The misogyny underlining the feminist discourse made me rage. But that’s his world view. It’s valid. It’s simply not how I would take up space.

I must have read other books too but nothing else stayed.

I live this way now.

I take up space.

Bulletproof

Some of us girls, women, grandmothers
are Draupadi's daughters. 
We claim that we love all seven equally. 
Perhaps there are more. 
Our hearts are as wide 
and deep as oceans 
Full of hurts, secrets, and desires. 

For once we see men telling us repeatedly 
to eat well, to stay healthy, to be happy, to dress warm. 
Don't fall sick, they say that as a refrain. 

They wear make up, sometimes not, (and the world thinks they are lesser for it) 
But we only see the honest expressions they wear 
When they tell us without shame 
That they love us 
We are the reason for their existence. 
They bake us cookies 
They give us cushions 
And messages full of hope and reward. 

Their play makes us laugh
And the songs 
wring every hurt we have ever lived
And the songs heal us
We have watery smiles after.
They have magically fixed us 
(Just like they said they would)
in the Magic Shop. 

So Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. 
Seven days a week 
Hour after hour
We can love (O but also fuck) our men. 
We can sing to them.

We say, I love you. I love you. I love you. 
We hear his voice in silver echoing it back through space and time. 
And I love you. 
We hear them say 'Saranghae ARMY' back. 
We don't even have to ask. 
That's why we love them. 

They are men we wrote 
And brought to life. 
They are boyscouts 
They are ours.
They are like the way 
men need to be 
But aren't. 
And all real life dating apps fail. 
We remain bulletproof. 

Nest

Today I want to write about pain. Again. Caregiving empty nester is a real thing.

With Papa gone so beautifully and peacefully, Amma and I feel quite rudderless. There is, of course, the lingering grief, regret, and pride. But the emptiness and lack of stress is befuddling.

For nearly three years, I have been on high alert. Even when asleep, I never fully lost myself. I was alert to sounds, especially from Papa’s room downstairs. I would often have to go down in the middle of the night or around 2 am to reassure him that everyone was asleep still; that it wasn’t morning. He needed to go back to sleep. In the initial months, he would sleep by 9 pm and wake up around 1 pm and start sweeping the compound and making tea for himself and my mom. For weeks we lived in fear of him walking away in the early morning in some confused state. I got a dog tag done with his details that I made him wear at all times. So most nights I would forego sleep, watch K-Dramas or BTS content and keep a ear cocked for any signs of distress downstairs. Then, we hit upon the plan to repair the main door so we could only latch it from outside and that meant he would have to sit in the house, even if he got up.

After a lot of anger, disgruntledness, and confusion, he settled into the powerlessness of not being able to open the front door and go outside.

We noticed four or five batches of tea brewed in the kitchen for my mother. It unlocked a new fear. What if he forgot to turn off the stove?

I briefly toyed with the idea of cordoning of his room. But instead, on my brother’s recommendation, we got into the habit of making him a flask of tea and disconnecting the gas cylinder.

He would forget the flask was there and instead look for snacks. So we began to stock snacks and fruits and displayed it all on the dining table.

All this had to be seen to in the night.

Morning brought it’s own set of challenges. Each day a new solution had to be found.

This was life for over two years.

At the time, we couldn’t imagine how we were to continue with this life. We prayed desperately for release.

We put him in rehabilitation centres and even a dementia home. We cried so much missing him and feeling guilty that we’d quickly bring him back. We played this rigmarole for three months till his accident and subsequent hip replacement surgery. After, it was a sign that he would have to be with us. He didn’t need to. All my well-wishers yelled at me for not putting him back at the home. But I refused to send him anywhere except for four-five days. Those five days, Amma and I slept the sleep of the exhausted. We’d prime ourselves and get him back and the cycle of worry would continue.

This was life till his death.

After, I threw myself into work, people, events, connections. Grief was felt only during my car drives to and fro from work and errands.

I was inching towards a burnout. So I stopped the running around, the work, subsisting on the bare minimum.

Now there’s nothing so there’s no sleep. I have been advised to sleep more by my doctors to keep my anxiety at bay. I take pills to sleep but I can’t sleep.

Then, last month my period was unbelievably late while my PMS was the worst it could be. Migraines, vomiting, fever, anger, sorrow, dizziness, heightened sensitivity to smells, hot flashes, it was beautiful. Then finally, after eating copious amounts of chicken, papaya, walking, drinking alcohol, I finally got the dreaded period along with a breast infection. It was an abscess.

So in a way, having a painful wound on my breast that takes months to heal is a welcome retreat to old patterns. I spent the initial few weeks stressing about cancer till the report said I had no signs of it. Then I spent time trying to recover while fulfilling marathon work commitments. I invoked the strength and tenacity of BTS and succeeded. Quite like them.

Trips and happy events got cancelled. I had more time to stew in misery, loss, self-doubt, and everyone’s favourite – self-pity. Why now? Why me? When will it end?

But last night I had this epiphany that pain is my comfort zone, crisis is my home. Adrenaline junkies do adventure sports. I do hospitals and crisis. I have no identity without either. And maybe this auto-immune issue is a gift to help me force myself to process grief and find a non-stressful way to keep busy. I can’t walk, work, or even sit up for long hours.

So I nest, lie in bed, watch K-Dramas and cry and laugh and heal over BTS content, and my own life these past few years.

I miss Papa. I can’t bring him back. Besides, what a burden he would have been if he had survived with his dementia getting worse. He would have been bitter and unhappy, and possibly bedridden. We would have died caregiving.

And now without him, it feels we are still dying slowly every day. What’s our purpose?

Caregiver’s emptiness.

What a ridiculous sort we, humans, are as people.