Within The Comfort Of My Bookshelf.

Around ten years ago when 'Harry Potter' was a huge thing, everyone seemed to be 'into' the series and were huge fans.When the movies came out, the response was similar.
However, I never seemed to have any inclination to the books or the movies, despite trying to read the first book and watching the first 3 movies with my friends.

I recall receiving flak for not enjoying fantasy enough and the feeling that one "lacks imagination" if they aren't into books like Lord of the Rings or Chronicles of Narnia.
Over the years, my love for books spanned to realistic fiction like T.C Boyle's Wild Child or memoirs like Angela's Ashes and mostly anecdotal/psychology based books like The Woman Who Changed Her Brain.

It wasn't until Boyle's Wild Child that I found comfort in the kind of books that I really am interested in.While authors of fantasy may be as creative and insightful as non-fiction ones, I feel that they have free reigns when it comes to creating stories, there's no limit or boundary ; one can fight dragons and save the world. There are morals and lessons and traces of human nature, but at large none of those things can really happen to you.

But when it comes to non-fiction, one has to convey a story that is just as gripping, intense and compelling whilst keeping it relatable and realistic as possible;stories that could happen to you or may have happened to those around you,or ones that you can learn from. I feel that fantasy authors have all the fruits in their basket to make fruit cake while authors of realistic fiction and non-fiction have only the basket to work with.

'Are', in the present tense.

Today you are 30. 

This year I will be 28. The same age when you "left". And did you really leave though? did you choose to? were you ready? Is anyone ready?

Today is not a good day. I will cry, choke up, light candles by your pictures, go through the letters you sent me and cry some more. Not because we'd be celebrating this day together, but because...instead of all the places you'd have seen, code you'd have written, thoughts you'd have shared, there is now a blank space. A space where I'm left guessing, imagining and for the most part conjuring images of your face and body here. I know what to say to you, more than often I say it out loud in my empty room. Thank God for the simulation of 28 years of Gid programmed in my brain. It's muscle memory.

However, It's too much, to have this full blown conversation with you. I can't bring myself to conjure up all the mundane thoughts, unique interpretations of your escapades on the road, at work or online, you'd have shared with me. Because a quick Google search tells me  "you would have" in grammar, is sometimes called "modals of lost opportunities", and rightly so.

So instead, I grieve. 

Grief, like I've read is really the "last act of love I can offer" you. Isn't it deeply disheartening that this is all I can offer you? Then you show up in my dreams as if to say, "I'm here". 

Noone prepared me for this maddening and persistent dissonance. 

Nonetheless, in my dissonance, in this vague in-between of aging with and without you, you are 30.

Happy Birthday Gid. 

You are in my heart. You are 30.

'Are' in the present tense. 

-Apphia D'souza

Disclaimer: I am human. I feel things.

 

Dr. Gabor Mate talks about two kinds of people when it comes to understanding any kind of pain; those who’ve experienced it and those who are trained to work with it. I happen to fall under both categories. My life took an irrevocable turn forever, in October 2014 when I heard about the ‘lesion’ (which turned out to be cancer) in my brother’s brain until four years later on 29th December 2018, when he left the earthly dimension.

Ever since then, I feel like a walking disclaimer; except that no one can see its contents. I walk with the disclaimer that I will never know how to respond when someone uses the word “dead” in a way to express anything other than actual death. I walk with the disclaimer that when someone uses the word “cancer” like it’s just another disease that affects just another statistic, I throb with fear and contempt knowing the damage it is capable of causing in a home. After this loss, the inner light is dimmer and these words now hold the reality of what I’ve watched and lived through. These words that I, too once used loosely now hold all sorts of heavy, new meaning that I can’t brush past without remembering my brother’s strained half smile with his “good side” cause the other side was paralyzed during the last month. I can’t move past words that remind me of my brother patiently leaning against a lamppost (cause he couldn’t stand without support) in Germany, while waiting for me till I ran to withdraw cash. I recall the worry of coming back too late and finding him lying on the ground, but when I rushed back to find him still holding on, still there, I stopped in my tracks. I stopped to take it in. I felt love, excruciating sadness and relief. And for a single second, I wished I could turn back time, to a safer place where he ran marathons and depended on 0 assistance to wear a glove, in the hope that I would have to never witness someone I love and admire so deeply just have to… stay there for me, without a choice or bodily control.

Wishes don’t always come true though, but I wish he stayed longer. Not against that lamppost in Germany, but on earth and in my home.

 -Apphia D'souza

Until we meet again

I really wish this is true ; that we meet
the ones we have lost.
I wonder if it's something I say to myself to make sense of this ache or is it because my brother reassured me that we will meet again for fear he felt I would lose my sanity without him here on earth.

I was thinking of my walk in Kodaikanal with a close friend who said , " I wish I could kill you so you both could just be together" and I feel that so much. Not to die. To really meet my brother again. To see my nephew and both my grandmas in their best selves, living their best lives ; not when they were sick and compromised in their last days.

There is a longing to meet again in our casual and mundane moments, warm embraces, candid laughter and secret jokes in all the corners of the house where the light shines,not because of the sun but radiating from the love we have for each other that noone else will share.

-Apphia D'souza

We are an infinite loop

I was never the kind to get a tattoo on my body. Or so I thought.
I was walking on the streets of Gottingen on this very day, last year with my brother and his wife (who asked if I would like to get one)
My brother's speech was stuttered and his left side paralyzed while (as always) he shared with ease a brilliant tattoo idea that ran across his mind.

As kids, we shared everything. We halved everything from an eclair to a cup of tea without a second thought.
I recall when I was about 5,our fingertips covered with melted chocloate from a kit kat bar and we equalled how many fingertips each one of us would get to lick off!

This exchange we shared was so significant to us as we grew up and into our own individual worlds:apart yet interconnected.

Similarly,a mobius strip is an endless loop. If you cut a strip of paper, twist it and join its ends and make an ant walk on it, that ant would walk along it eternally
The loop, while it looks like two halves, is really one whole.That is what we are.
Two halves of one whole.

Without hesitation, I got the tattoo done on my inner left wrist: one of the most painful areas to get one. A place I'd always see us together, even when the world didn't.

This tattoo gave me something to hold onto during this painfully, impending loss and a sense of comfort that I will go to dust with it.

His name is etched in my veins now, and invariably in my heart.

My brother and I are an infinite loop.

To have and to hold

Photo by Paperboat

Any given date is a unsuitable date to die.
For a loved one to leave, I'd pick a date that didn't exist on a calendar, like February 30th. A day that would never remind of when a whole human being, an entire entity ceased to exist.

Each passing day is a reminder of the extent to which my brother held an immeasurable space in my journey on earth, in my mind and soul.

It's unbearable to realise all the things I can never do with him again and all the spaces we can no longer stay in; to share an emotion.

To share a feeling and witness it. 

What NOT to say to the grieving

When people say I don’t like funerals, I believe they mean many things. Possibly, they may mean, “It's difficult to witness death” or the feelings that come with it, the societal norms one needs to fulfil, the myriad of surface level verbal exchanges with friends, relative, strangers and so on. 

As I experience the impending loss of a loved one, I come closer to an understanding of how little we know when communicating with someone who is grieving. 

My brother was diagnosed with Grade 4 brain cancer about 4 years ago and since then he has been beating the odds (in average life expectancy) and by living these years doing unimaginably beautiful things with courage that is beyond admirable.

As his sister, I’ve been at the receiving end of constant irrelevant questions, with the top 2 most banal ones: 

1. How is your brother?  

2. How are you? 

Both these questions come from an intention of trying to show concern to a grieving person. 

1. Does it serve the person who is grieving in any way? No. It worsens the blow.

2. Does it serve you because you think you’re showing concern to the grieving person? Possibly.

3. Do you feel better if the grieving person responds with some information; update or sharing because you think you did well by showing concern?

Grief is complicated; it is vast, deep, engulfing and overwhelming.
I have been grieving since the day my brother was diagnosed four years ago, I grieve now and I will grieve until I turn to dust.

Grief is different for everyone; how they process it, what works for them, how long they grieve, what the loss means to them and how they make sense of themselves in relation to the world around them.

Some more not -so helpful questions, statements and suggestions that are counter-productive:

1. Stay strong. (Not sure why I have to stay strong and withhold my feelings when my world is falling apart)

2. Stay positive. (for who? the world outside, for you, for ourselves? And why?)

3. We are praying for you. Miracles work. (Read post below : https://lemonadegirl.blogspot.com/2018/12/the-tomato-miracle.html?m=1 )

4. Let me know if I can be of any help.

To the last statement ^ unless you’re extremely close to a grieving person, you wouldn’t have to make that statement and would already know what to do. You can “be there” physically: hold them, stay with them, and let them cry without judgement. Make them tea, help with cleaning or tidying up the place, with the miscellaneous things that they can’t afford to worry about. Make sure they’re eating and drinking and be prepared to stay by their side when they cry anytime, anywhere. 

If you’re not very close to the person grieving, it is better that you say nothing and continue as you were .There’s no expectation that you should show concern or say/do something to make us feel better.

So, back to the questions you ask, here are the immediate answers you elicit (and are probably not ready to handle):

1. How is your brother?  Answer: Fighting for life against cancer with each passing day.

2. How are you? Answer: Grieving.

Ask yourself:

1. Are you equipped to hold emotional and/or physical space for the person who is feeling immeasurable pain? (Especially on chat?)

2. Have you considered reading up about grief to be of actual help to a grieving person?

3. What do you hope to achieve out of the interaction?

I believe as a human being, I have a palette of emotions, each prominent depending on the phases of life.

Grief is prominent now.

And I belive I have no choice but to honour and acknowledge all the colours that demand to be seen on the canvas of my life.

This blog is dedicated to my brother who came up with its title 8 years ago and told me recently, “I like your blog too”, after I was telling him about a friend’s posts I really like.

I love you,Gid.

The tomato miracle

I've observed in the past few weeks and years, how people generally respond to a crisis, and especially when someone is grieving or anticipating a horrific occurrence.

I want to ask anyone here to imagine this : you've had a bad day, seen something terrifying, witnessed an accident, lost something important and the minute you confide in someone , their first response is : keep drinking tomato juice, it's the cure to everything. Hope it works. 

You've lost a friend, you've broken up with someone, you lost your job, you've made a big life decision and the first thing I'll reply is : Don't worry, tomato is the answer. Hope you believe in its healing power.
Keeping tomatoes in a box specially for you <3

It is an easy cop out in place of nothing to say to someone because you may not know how to empathize.

Did you maybe consider that when a person is losing a family member, the last thing they want to hear is that you're praying for them? And somehow that's is the end-all answer to everything? Like my hypothetical end all answer : tomato juice.

Do you feel the magnitude of pain a completely intelligent,young and capable person who is now losing his physical emotional and mental abilities has to go through while listening to your comments about a "prayer" or "miracle" which is equivalent to me replying to you with, yes you guessed it : Tomato juice.

We all are entitled to our beliefs, I respect yours as much as I would only HOPE that you can see that there's a human on the other side hoping for a sense of comfort and support.

And if you pray, feel free to, but I urge you to refrain from constantly informing us about it like a reminder that these are the only words you could find in the emotional vocabulary.

NOTE: Helping someone in the ONLY way we know, may not be what is helpful for them.
Support in ways that might help THEM, even if it means doing something that you don't always do.
And ofcourse if you don't want to, silence is golden.

You can be assured my tomato  prayers as a response to anything in the near or distant future. :)

My Father's Bajaj Super FE : Retro Lives On.

(Left) Not the original bike, however, it looked quite similar.
Photo from IndiaToday and heybrian.com

According to my father, we always have had a fifth member in our family; his ''faithful companion" his 18 year old Bajaj Super FE, purchased on 22nd, Jan 1994!

As I read an old diary of events my mother had noted down, I notice a line from Feb'97 (I was 5 years old) :  "Apphia always wants to go with Dada when going on the scooter to go to School" and there was no denying that.
I adored the bike that took me to school every lazy morning while my eyes were half shut and my hands clutching my Dad's pockets as I sat behind. My place.My seat.Just behind my Pops.Always.

The Super FE was truly a part of my family, I realized today. We had a relationship.
It was comforting, faithful and resourceful.
Every night after dinner, I'd jump in excitement and race down 3 floors with my brother and wait for our Dad, sitting on the parked bike seat to takes us for another adventure ride to places we've never been to.
We'd stroll to crowded junctions, highways, Haji ali, Marine Lines and have races with each other on the empty lanes, play catch and cook with our dad till we lost and generally have him buy us a 'softy' ice-cream on our way back home.
It was sheer fun, animated in all its innocence and joy, running back to the big seat of the Bajaj, taking us in a reckless yet safe fashion, from place to place.

I loved standing out of the old building balcony monitoring the bike,often yelling at passerby's to not meddle with the breaks and gears and most of all choosing what color it had to painted (every 6-7 years)from a catalogue.
After school, I would eagerly wait to hear my Pops do his signature whistle and I'd run like a mad pup till I caught sight of the scooter and by habit, climb and position myself on the seat.
It transformed and changed through the years.It went from white, to swan white to light blue and finally now, a shiny light blue.It's faulty parts were changed so many times, I can't even remember and after every service, my dad would praise it's new look and how much better of a ride it's going to be.

Lessons were taught to us on that bike, not just how its gears shifted and its 'choke' worked or taking a try at the kick start.Our dad taught us life lessons on it, often stopping on a busy road, telling us to get off and help a person who was blind along their way across the street and a couple of times, dropping friends or people to places they needed to urgently go to and even once, he told us to get off, guiding us to go home walking by ourselves from the main market while taking an injured acquaintance to the hospital whom we passed by on the street.

As we grew older and bigger, the rides together lessened.It was soon limited to taking us to school and back.By then, we were 'tweens' and soon embarrassed by that 'annoying bike' unlike the other rich kids at my school with cars and 'better' bikes.
I noticed that I had always overlooked how attached my dad was to his bike.He knew it like a friend ; In an out, its faults and cheats, where it's power lied, how to swerve it and what step it's going to take.He knew it. It knew him.
Instead, I was always ready for 'change', hoping when we'd get a side-car so we wouldn't have to resemble a 'carnival family'(All four of us on one bike) or a nice Motor bike or even Activa so that it felt just a little less, lame.(I ruled out the idea of a car cause I was tired of listening to my Dad say, "We'll buy a car when we hit the lottery, baba")

It was judged, despite it's service to us.But It gave us back anyway.

Today as I look back on all the trivial matters; How I'd ask Pops to not get the bike inside school when I reached Std 11(In the same school) or how I'd save my lunch money to take a cab ride home so I wouldn't have to be seen on the bike or the times when I'd call my Dad from a PCO to say I'm coming home walking(as much as I hated carrying the heavy bag in the sweaty, unshapely uniform back home). I see the Bajaj as such a massive part of our life.We experienced childhood, adolescence and young adult life with it. Today, when I sit on it for a stroll to 'The Race Course' to see horses or take a walk, I don't hesitate to enjoy every quirk of the bike, every nuance. In a way, thanking it for everything.

I used to plan in my head, that one day, when I earn enough, I'd buy my Pop's something grand.
Although, I guess, he'd still not let go of the Bajaj. Ever.
To be honest,  nor will I.