"It's okay" or is it?

There is always an upper hand. We like to believe in true love there is no power play but silently, without the slightest mention of it, day after day, it goes on.

It happens to the best of us, the strongest of us, the most feminist of us. We dismiss it. Often, we approve of it and don’t get me wrong, we are not lying when we do it. It’s far more dangerous than that.

We convince ourselves that “it’s okay”. If he doesn’t share the chores, he’s tired – it’s okay. If he cannot be an equal parent, nature didn’t intend it that way – it’s okay. If he cannot find a better job, the competition is too stiff – it’s okay. If he doesn’t notice or laughs at my creative efforts, they must be silly  - it’s okay. If he cannot pick up his dirty socks, old habits die hard – it’s okay.

If I’m not enough in bed, everyone needs excitement, besides he still loves me – it’s okay.

If he does not make me feel loved or wanted any more, the drudgery of the day has taken over – it’s okay.

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.

Until it no longer is.

And at that point a separation or the pen is not mighty enough. Meeting someone else is frustrating. Hanging with the girls, doesn’t really take your mind off. Shallow conquests like shopping, Netflix and binge-eating are not going to fill the void. Because, guess what…? It’s NOT OKAY.

You are not okay. Accept it. You may or may not want to change anything about your situation but accept it that it’s not okay. Tell yourself it is not. Remind yourself how he continuously fails at being a partner, being a dad, being a man, at making you feel special and if you still find yourself hopelessly in love with him and not wanting to leave, “it’s okay”.

The long-distance

I didn’t realize it was possible to be sad about leaving somewhere you never actually were. That it was possible to miss living in a city you didn’t actually live in. To have your heart broken by the thought of it all ending, something that wasn’t yours to begin with. That is the power of social media in today’s world. It lets us live so many lives from miles away without moving an inch. But it’s not just that. It’s also the city. It’s the magic of Bombay. 

Two years back, my sister, Tania moved to Mumbai for her masters and I still recall clearly, one of her first assignments was to wake up early in the morning, take the train to South Bombay from Juhu, where she stayed and go take pictures of anything and everything that caught her fancy. I remember scrolling through her Facebook feed with great curiosity. 

Now, Gateway of India is something that has been photographed a hundred times before and I have seen it in many movies but seeing it through Tania’s eyes was still a feeling anew. In her pictures, those young smiling faces she had met just a day before, those people she referred to as “batch-mates”, they smelled of promise. The promise of learning, of happiness, of being successful and of having fun while at it. Days became months and batch-mates turned into friends. And I, from 10,000 miles away started living my life in this city of dreams - a city I had never actually visited, much less lived in. 

Everyday Tania talked endlessly about her experiences at school, at the hostel, new friends she made, about unending assignments and sometimes when her days allowed she uploaded a picture or two of Mumbai in the passing. Often times, these pictures were of a little kitten or a puppy or a security guard. 

I stared at it for hours with a longing to visit. To meet these people and these animals, to smell the trees, to let the air touch my bare skin. One experience, I distinctly remember was when she uploaded a picture captioned “Mumbai ki pehli baarish” from her balcony. It was more iron grill than anything else in that picture but I felt a twinge in my heart wishing I was there. 

Then last year, everything changed. I decided I no longer wanted to be someone who’s never visited this city of hopes and dreams. So, I packed my bags and decided to go surprise Tania. It was the month of June, and not so surprisingly, the city welcomed me with open arms and pouring rains. Lo and behold, it was my first “Mumbai ki pehli baarish” and a few hours later I found myself standing in that same balcony peeking from behind those iron grills at the city. I spent over a week in the city falling hard for her. What I didn’t realize then however was that she was loving me back. 

Two years have gone by in a swoosh. Tania’s “At Juhu with Juhu” roommate is gone. Her hostel room and the 3 beds are now empty as she packs her suitcases one last time. Romancing the Mumbai rains from that balcony is now behind her (and me) but Bombay will forever hold our hearts in her bosom. 

Chapter I - Jab we met || An ode to Bombay

"An ode to Bombay" is a mini series I intend to write and share here for two primary reasons - 

1. To get back into the habit of writing 

2. To document how the city made me feel

(Disclaimer - This is mostly a fictional travelogue. Although, it is a first person account not everything here is a true account of my life especially the characters in my story. Any resemblance to you or anyone you know is absolutely coincidental. That being said a lot of it certainly is inspired by real life experiences of people I know and myself.) 

As always, look forward to your thoughts and criticism on this if you get through to the last line. Would want to know if it's absolutely terrible too, so do leave me a note. 

Chapter I - Jab we met

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The first time I arrived in Bombay as a tourist, in the third decade of my life, I knew what it meant when people looked at me in part-horror, part-disbelief every time  they heard me say - "I have never been to Bombay". Fresh off an airplane from New York, stepping out into this warm humid city, they called "India's New York" at almost midnight, I did not know what to expect but I was glad that finally for the rest of my life I wasn't going to shock people with "I have never been to Bombay" any longer. I found strange relief in that. 

Growing up books, movies, people glamorized Bombay in ways that were attractive beyond the display of wealth in the South Bombay skyscrapers or the modernization that came with the city's women's shortest of shorts or larger than life haircuts. The inherent romance of Bombay rains stirred in my teenager heart a longing. Longing for places I had never been to, people I had never met and rains I had never felt on my skin. The brilliant photography of the marine drive, the bird's eye view of the city, the ocean waves splashing the shores and the people relentlessly, treating everyone equal; an Indian city with a skyline, the TV and Bollywood's portrayal of Bombay was the only Bombay I knew. 

For I had Calcutta, the city I lived and breathed and took with me wherever I went and I knew no real people from Bombay after-all. What good could they be anyway? 

Because I had Calcutta and what more could one need I questioned myself? When I moved to America a decade back, the part of not knowing any real people from Bombay changed forever. 

I met a guy and then I met several others. Maharashtrians, not Maharashtrians. People who walked and talked Bombay, the Bombay-ites, the Mumbaikars, people from the Bombay suburbs, Bombay marwaris, Bombay Gujaratis, the Pune-it's, the people from Nasik and Solapur who introduced themselves as being from Bombay, the girl from a small town in UP who at the young age of 19 had left home to make it big in the city of dreams, that thoroughbred Calcuttan who had moved to Bombay to study and sold her soul to the city, announcing with pride how much she loved Bombay. I met all these people and then some more. But that first guy I met, lived and breathed Bombay just like I did Calcutta and when we fell in love, it was like two cities, nothing like each other,  colliding. It lasted not too long and went up in flames but the burning embers scorched tissues, bones and dreams for a long time to come. This Bombay love of mine and I had made uncountable plans of traveling to Mumbai and Kolkata and many other cities together, none of which to our utter dismay ever happened. 

But more than half a decade later, here I was boarding a plane to go to this new city all by myself. 

A friend's sister and her husband met me at the airport and drove me to their apartment in Santa Cruz. This is where I would live for the next couple of days. I quickly changed, ate a bite and called it a night. But the jet lag had kicked in and I lay awake all night trying my best to catch the quiet sounds of a sleeping city. Sometime in the wee hours I must have fallen asleep, for I awoke with a jolt. There was loud rain pelting on the windows panes. Ah! The famous Bombay rains, I thought to myself and craned my neck without moving my body to look out of the tiny window above my head, to catch my first glimpse of this fabled city. 

Fresh washed gorgeous green leaves and bright smiling red petals of a Gulmohar tree in bloom, sounds of chirpy crows and bulbuls, the noise of the downpour splashing on the tin roofs below, everything a verdant green, like new life had been breathed into every leaf. My first look of Bombay was a movie, a painting, an orchestra all of it together and to say she had caught my attention would be a gross understatement. Bombay already had my heart. 

Nagazeer (Foregone)

Guzra kal, gaya hua waqt, ateet - kabhi hamara peecha nahi chhodta

Kabhi andheri raat toh kabhi maachis ki ek lau si lautti hai
kabhi jala kar raakh toh kabhi peepal ke chhaon si sehlati hai
Main sochti hun zeaef nabz kahaan rakhi hogi tumne meri
Gobhi ke pakodon waali shaam toh yaad hogi?

Hans-hans ke mukammal giye the jo vaade tumne
aaj bhi unki mehek kisi kamre mein toh hogi?
Kabhi jhande si lehrayi gayi, kabhi cheezon jaisi ek kone padhi main
mez, chatai aur kursiyon se baatein karti thi.

Main thi bhi ya na thi, mashkuk hun main
Lekin Mohabbat thi, ye itimad hai mujhe

Intolerance

I wish this world would see

Just how much of an evil it is

To stereotype or

Ask with horror or disbelief

That innocent statement – “I don’t understand”

Not so innocent after all

To teach your children to fear

All things you are not -

Muslim, Gay, Black or Queer

“What, what? Did you say Pakistani?”

“Did you say she married her?”

Oh well! - “I don’t understand,

I think this world is weird.”

Dad says – “You are more than a son to me”

Why is that ‘more than’ there?

Mom says – “I love you but what will people say”

Why is that ‘but’, but there?

Oh can’t you see, oh don’t you see

You are bringing up a whole generation that ‘fears’

Under the veil of hate. 

The weary traveler

And just like that one day, with her big doe eyes, her beautifully draped sarees and the flickering nose ring she took him away. 

"She wears short skirts, I wear tee shirts", everytime I heard Taylor Swift play on the radio, I would think just how shallow and inane that is. It sure does take more than looking hot or smiling pretty to steal a man's heart. Doesn't it? Except, it does not. 

To be honest, I'm not bitter any longer. Or angry. I was, when I first found out. But now only the last burning ambers of pain remain. Also, this whole episode taught me more things about my character than it did about his. It made me realize that my self esteem was easily shaken. That my cloak of self-confidence was as flimsy as a bubble of soap. That I put the onus of being made to feel like I was the best, in my partner all the time, without doing anything to be the best. That whether I accept it or not, my life was a constant competition of looking better, sounding smarter, loving more, feeling more than everyone else. And last but not the least, the more you try to chase something, the more it will continue to elude you.

Our lives today are a joke. We are all running in a scorching hot desert, the sand burning our feet. None of us know where to or why? Everyone is, so are we. Finding someone to love and be loved in return is like finding an oasis in this never ending desert. You can well imagine how rare and precious that is. So, when we find it, we sit down and rest and suddenly everything is so perfect and green and it's raining. It's raining love, smiles and happiness and we are enjoying our siesta. Then suddenly, we are woken up and we see everyone around us is running. Where to or why? We ask ourselves. We have no answers. But we think everyone is, so, I must. And now that we have once found an oasis, we are convinced, there lies more and may be more beautiful, more green. So, once again, we run. 

But oases in deserts are far and few, mirages are plenty. And we are all but weary travelers. 

The lost "you"

You "break-up", and you "move-on". You meet someone again and fall in love and life goes on. So, technically speaking, you just get up one day, cast something old away, something that is not working any more and replace it with something new, something that works. As simple as one, two, three. Except, it's not. With every break up in life, at least two people (and I say at least two because in many situations there are also other lives affected) lose a part of themselves. A part they can never have back. You can burn all bridges and hate each other with all your might or you can make peace and choose to remain civil and/or become "friends". It doesn't matter which path you take; on a fine summer evening in June, you will find yourself sitting on your porch, watching the sun go down and no matter how happy you are in life today, no matter how much you are loved, you will miss a moment, a word, a nickname, a hug, a voice, a smile, a "you" that you once had. A "you", you can never have back. 

And in that moment, If you find tears rolling down your cheeks, at the helplessness of knowing how you can never have that you back any more, smile. Smile because how lucky were you that you met and journeyed together in life with someone so beautiful, they brought out a whole new person in you. A person so unique, that even you can't recreate it again. That's love, that's magic that only a lucky few can experience. 

Devi, Maa aur sainkro naam

yeh samundar meri khamoshiyon ki awaaz hai 

tat par aaakar toot-ti lehren mere dil ka ek-ek alfaaz hai 

tune mutthi mein jo band kar rakkhe hain

mere bikhre sapno ke moti 

woh laakar lauta de aaj mujhe 

main piroun phir woh maala 

apni komal ungliyon se

Chhil de jinko woh kathor dhaga 

Khoon se lathpath ho jaanghe meri 

sharm se nat nat ho mera maatha 

tu mandir jaa, kar pooja devi ki 

ghar wapas aa, phir kar mujhko aadha. 

From the Ghost of the Valentine's Past

Slowly, little by little I can't remember the smell of your skin anymore 

Or how the skin at the edge of your nose crinkled, when I planted a sleepy kiss on your forehead. 

Sometimes I wake up and stand at the edge of the bed 

tracing the contours of your body with imaginary lines in my head 

But I have lost the points and the exact color of your skin, I just can't recall any more. 

I want to stay there some more until I can remember 

But you are not there, you are not there any more. 

And slowly little by little, this house has lost your smell. 

And since you are gone - The walls, the television, the sofa, the chair & the tables don't quite call out your name anymore. 

But they remember me, they remember my name and every morning and evening, all day and all night, they look for me, they call out my name...but they can't find me. 

They call out, they search for me everywhere, they scream for me..but they can't find me. 

They can't find me anywhere. 

Because... 

since you are gone, 

I'm not me anymore. 

The pointlessness of it all

The more I think about it, the more I realize that making money is totally pointless especially when it keeps you away from loved ones. What's the point of life really if you can't go back home to parents or children or your partner at the end of a long hard day at work? We stay away from home and our home cities/countries waiting all year for those 10 days to go back and be with them and for many of us even that doesn't happen every year. We wish against all hope to make it for a childhood best friend's or a sister's or a brother's wedding and on most occasions don't manage to. Most of our Facebook statuses are about how we miss being with family and friends especially during the Holidays, how we miss Park Street at Christmas time or Delhi's wintry mornings and "Maa ke haath ka khana". We call our old grandparents and give them a hard time as they literally scream into the telephone to ensure they can be heard thousands of miles away and when they ask when they would be seeing us next, we answer quickly with "soon", all the time living with the fear that it could very well be "never". 

And yet every morning, I snooze my alarm three times, crawl out of bed unwillingly and wear my business suit to go make some money. Most days, I don't stop to think why. But when I do, I realize the pointlessness of it all and then this piece happens. 

Citius, Altius, Fortius - My Daddy strongest

8^th of November 2010 . A date that I will not forget and I choose never to. Because this day distinctly marks the beginning of my adulthood. I clearly remember it was the Monday after Diwali weekend. It had been a long weekend of festivities and partying and the usual madness that comes easy when you are young. My BFF was visiting and after the insanity that happened on Friday and Saturday, we thought we needed a break on Sunday. So, she and I took a 90 minute train ride into the city that evening. To relax. Yes, in those days, that was pretty much our idea of relaxation. Of course, once in the city, the whole idea of relaxation flew out of the window. So we partied some more, met more friends, hung out till late and I had barely just crashed around 5 AM, every part of my body tired and aching but the little child in me happy and excited and carefree. I was probably still in a state of half wakefulness when the phone flashed – “Home calling”. Unusual, I thought. It’s barely 6 in the morning. Also, my folks never really call. They just text or give me a missed call and I call them back. I picked up and answered with a sleepy ‘Hello’, not knowing then that this call on the 8^th of November 2010 will change me and my family forever.

It was a long battle since that day. How long? 3 months, 6 months, a year? I don’t think I can say when the fear finally started to subside. I don’t know if I can say it truly ever stopped or will stop. At best, you make peace with it and learn to live with it. Every time there is a little coughing, there is fear in the eyes of every loved one. Every time the weighing machine shows a pound lesser, there is summoning the doctor. There is fear, there is despair, there is hopelessness, and there is pain, suffering, weakness, lack of motivation, no willingness to go on with anything. There is disapproval of your appearance, there are uncountable ‘why me’s, there is faith shaken, there is Godlessness. But also there is strength, there is a fighting spirit, there is constant learning and trying and where none should be left, there is hope. There is a wish to live, to go on. There is love and prayers and faith renewed. There is a man I call father, who makes me who I am. A man I call Papa, whose hug still fixes the world. A man I call daddy, who never gave up. My sister and I loved the ‘My Daddy strongest’ commercial from when we were kids and often broke into fights with other kids claiming that our dad had some kind of superiority over theirs. Today, 8^th of November 2015, I will say ‘My Daddy strongest’ and no one can tell me otherwise. Congratulations Papa on completing the 5 year cancer free mark today. Your mental and physical strength are unmatched. You continue to teach us by example every day that nothing can stop one from chasing their dreams, not even the ‘Emperor of All Maladies’. Cheers to good health and an indomitable spirit. 

Karobaar

Aaj ek lambe arse baad tumhe yaad kiya.

Darasal, yaad nahi.

Yaad toh hum roz hi kisi na kisi bahaane se kar lete hain.

Aaj ek lambe arse baad tumhara number ghumaya.

Do baar ghanti baji ki nahi, tumne phone uthaya

Kaafi utsukta se tumne poocha – “Kaisi ho?”

(Main aag mein jhulasti ek talwaar ke jaisi hun

Aandhiyon mein hain kaanpti jo shaakh main vaisi hun

Jiske paar na pahunche koi us deewar ke jaisi hun

Chattan ke jaisi hun, main pahaar ke jaisi hun

Baarishon mein phoot-ti us boond ke jaisi hun

Jo badalon se chhoot-ti par dharti par girti nahi vaisi hun

Main shor machaati hawaon ke jaisi hun

Main lalkaar ke jaisi hun, hahakaar ke jaisi hun

Phir bhee shok sannatte mein chupchaap si jaisi hun

Main pyaar ke jaisi hun, alankaar ke jaisi hun

Phir bhi mudatton se chal rahe tiraskaar ke jaisi hun

Main abhimaan si, pehchaan si, ek bol ke jaisi hun

Main geet hun, main gaan hun, ek awaaz ke jaisi hun

Par main mook hun, vidwaan hun, main gungaan ke jaisi hun

Main parchhai hun, aur rooh bhi hun

Aur dil ke bhi jaisi hun

Main nadi hun, samundar hun, main leher ke jaisi hun

Main kavita hun, kahaani hun, ek kitaab ke jaisi hun

Main girti hun, khud hi sambhalti hun

Khud ghao apne bharti hun

Jab bhi aankhein chhalakti hain

Aansoon ko khud hi peeti hun

Jab dard se kaleja phat-ta hain

Main goongi hi chheekhti chillati hun

Main toofano se joojh kar, phir khud ko hi samjhaati hun -

Main aurat nahi, karobaar hun

Karobaar ke hi jaisi hun)

Kaafi utsukta se tumne poocha – “Kaisi ho?”

Jawaab hai – “Main acchhi hun”

Knock! Knock!! Knock! Knock!!

Knock! Knock!! Knock! Knock!!
Good heavens, are you the same??
Knocking on my door that night
In the rain you came?

Knock, knock, knock, knock!!
Can't you hear my hollow bones?
Knocking on your door all night
In the rain..

And all I want, all I really really want
is just some sleep
And a bullet through my head
To numb the pain!

And all I want, all I really really want
Is some skin
And an arm around my neck
To numb the pain!

Knock, knock, knock, knock!!
Your footsteps in my head
How you walked all over my heart
In my bed...

Knock, knock, knock, knock!!
How are you without me??
I guess you don't even
remember my name?

And all I want, all I really really want
Is some blood
A slit running down my throat
To numb the pain..

And all I want, all I really really want
Is some air
Look I'm flying, I'm flying now
There is no pain.

Hisaab

Kai baar zindagi us modh par lakar khadi kar deti hai
jahaan hum gile-shikwon ka hisaab-kitaab karte hain
apne khaate khol kar baith jaate hain, aur ek ek kar len den ka hisaab karte hain
kabhi number jodhte hain to hisaab mil jata hai
par aksar hum apne aap ko ghaate mein paate hai
kya kabhi socha hai aapne, hum apne aap ko kabhi fayde mein kyun nahi paate hain?
Duniya ka hisaab toh pakka hai.
saare khaate ant mein hisaab barabar hi dikhlate hain
agar hum sab ke khaate nuksaan mein hain toh fayde mein kaun hai?
agar humse hamesha sab kuch khoya hai toh paa kaun raha hai?

I do not remember, I do not forget.

I do not remember the promises you made
Or the three carat engagement ring you spent your twelve years' savings on
I do not remember the wedding wows or
the honeymoon sunset cruise
I do not remember our first house with the patio
the breathtaking view of the lake or the boat you got me for my birthday
I do not remember the model of our convertible or the James Beard dinner on our fifth anniversary
I do not remember the orchids you flew in from Venice
or that one time when we spontaneously hopped on a private jet to the islands.
But...
I do not forget that when the pasta I made had no salt
you ate with a smile and licked the bowl clean
I do not forget that when I twisted my ankle walking in stilettos
you promptly sat down on the floor
in your Tux and rubbed it till it hurt no more
I do not forget when I had four AM flights, you stayed up those nights
just to hold me one more time
just to smile me goodbyes
I do not forget when I kept rubbing my eyes that November
you tied up my fingers, we laughed till forever.
I do not forget when I saw my first gray hair
such a hue and cry I raised
and you shared in my mock despair
I do not forget when it was cold, when it was snowing
you agreed in my delusion that my summer plants were growing
I do not forget when they came down and took me
when they said in this cell there was a strict no visitors policy
you still came everyday and stood by the tall iron gates
I do not forget how you always stayed.
I do not forget how you always stayed.

Butter & a Revolving Door

I do not miss you like the ocean waves crashing on the sands
or the pied cuckoo that longs for the rain
I do not miss you like snow-less mountain peaks in winter
Or like music and lyrics,
or like poppies and pain
I do not miss you like a loveless marriage
Or a funeral home's silence and lack of compassion.
Like fresh dew drops on green grass
like sprightly daisies in a field of dandelions
like red roses and baby's breath
like bluebells and peonies
like the weary desert traveler in search of oases
I do not miss you like blue empty vases.
Or unknown cities of unknown trespasses.
I do not miss you like the Fifth symphony and the piano
Or broken guitar strings from summers long ago
I miss you like yellow
like water bottles
I miss you like revolving doors
And like butter on waffles. 

Piya tum mujhse door rehna

Piya tum mujhse door rehna.
khush rehna par door rehna.
Darkhwaast hai ye mere dil ki, 
par sunai deti kuch maghroor hai.
jaanti hun tum kahoge, 
phir se chhaya mujhpe koi fitoor hai
zillaton ki aandhiyon mein har baar tootna bikharna
phir unhi bhikhre tukron ko bator kar sambhalna
maachis ki teeliyon pe har bar apna ghar banana
aur ansoo-on se bheegi palkon pe naye sapne phir sajaana
har diwali, har holi pe paas hoke bhi door hona
duniya ke reeti-riwaazon se har waqat majboor hona
kehte hai jitni tadap ho, kahaani utni hee mashoor hoti hai
Heer-Ranjha,Suhni-Mehar,Mirza-Sahiban..
Aur bhi nyochhavar hui, kitni jawaaniyan, kitne hoor, hai na?
sunayi saza umr kaid ki, phir muskura ke bole piya - "manzoor hai na?"
aisi berukh zindagi ko ab maut bhi lagti noor hai na.
Tumhaare saath saath ab tumhaara Khuda bhi hai majboor,
bolo Khuda bhi ab majboor hai na?

Shame

(They say childhood is the most fondly remembered time of people’s lives. But some memories are best walled, forgotten and never having to recall until one day most unexpectedly it comes back to you and the walls come crumbling down)

Pinafores and pigtails

Giggles and glides

The sound of her laughter

The spark of her eyes

She called him dear uncle

She ran to say hi

He lifted her pronto

The man in disguise

Lip gloss & braids

School uniform & ties

The quiet hide n seek

From her uncle’s eyes

“Mummy, I can’t go”

“Mummy, it’s too hot outside”

She chides you for disobedience

She tells you – “Be nice”

Slowest steps of repulsion

She walks to his ambush

His cackle like cannons

Piercing skin, bones and thighs

Saudade - the malady of missingness

Missing you is a malady. An aberration of the heart that helps with nothing and interferes with everything. We talk all day. And you don't leave me alone in my dreams either. I don't understand how I could still miss you.
But I missed you that night when I lay in bed with you. My head on your shoulder, your fingers in my hair. The silence filling the room, every breath in sync. That night I missed your voice.

I like waking up next to you on a holiday. Not having to rush anywhere, staying in bed, doing nothing. But I missed you that morning when I woke up. We talked for hours. Cracked silly jokes, laughed till our jaws heart. We were so loud that morning. That morning I missed hearing you breathe.

Remember the nights of relentless love making? Our burning hot bodies so close, it was hard to tell one from another. Those nights I missed the spaces between us.

I like how you would kiss me goodbye every time you had to travel for work. How my eyes would well up despite knowing you will be back the next day. How you would call me at every opportunity with an excuse just to hear my voice. Those nights I missed you. I missed your touch.

I hate going to the movies with you. I hate that we sit so close to each other for three hours and can't speak a word. I hate that there's so much that happens on screen I want to share an opinion about right then but I can't. I hate that you can't show me another way of looking at it while we are right there. All those evenings, I miss our conversations. 

Daughter to Father

Papa. Today, I paused long and hard after writing that four letter word. I reflected. Rewind to Father's Day 2011, I woke up that morning my heart filled with gratitude like never before. To be honest, and to just say it bluntly, no sugar coating, I was just happy that day that you were alive. Unpleasant memories are the last thing one wants to remember. Naturally, the more you try to push these thoughts aside, the more stubborn these beasts get at resurfacing.
Nov 26th, 2010 was unambiguously the worst day of my life. Just like every year, I had taken the 17 hour flight to India, one day before your birthday. Around midnight, I reached home, rang the bell and waited with my full blown smile to greet you all. Mummy opened the door. Her face cold & pale as a white stone, no expression. Within seconds, I felt my jaw muscles stiffen. The only word I could manage to mouth - "What?" and she burst into tears in my arms. Tania, mom and I lay on the bed that night in distraught silence; counting hours, minutes, seconds. Every second felt like an hour, every hour like a year. We spoke not a word to each other that night. We had none.
Then dawned the morning of 26th, your birthday. First one standing in line as the clock struck visiting hours, I pulled myself strong and entered the ICU. Papa, I will never forget that moment when I saw you that day. Your body lying listless on the hospital bed, face unshaven for days, arms swollen, uncountable tubes & pipes running through the nose, mouth, throat, stomach, veins. Your chest heaving in synch with the scary looking loud ventilator. I know it's the last thing one wants, that no parent wants to live long enough to see his children die. But in that moment, that dying moment I wished and prayed and a thousand other emotions in a second to swap places with you. I stood there and muttered under my breath - "I love you Papa. Happy Birthday" as tears wet my cheeks.
The good news is we survived. Recovery was long and difficult and painful but we made it. I say 'we' because I think it was a cumulative flow of positivity and hope from all the people whose lives you have touched and who love you that brought you back. Even the doctors agreed this was nothing short of a miracle. In a few months from now, you will hit the 5 year cancer free milestone. I look at you everyday and see how hard you fought, how strong you were in the face of adversity, how many times you lost, how many times you were knocked down but didn't surrender. There is more to learn from you than I can possibly try to in a lifetime. And there is more I feel for you than any number of words from the dictionary can ever tell. I admire you and your tenacity and I want some day I can be half of what you are. Almost every prudent thing I have done thus far in life (though there are very few), I owe them to you and you alone. On this father's day, I just want to give you a public shout out - "My Daddy Strongest". Happy Father's Day Papa. Live long & strong!