As I look back at my childhood and my growing up years in India, I think I was an angel child for most part except one. Meal times! I was a monster during meal times for sure and I think I gave my parents, especially my mother the hardest time when I was little. 

Meal times in Indian families are generally a big affair and feeding the children can become an even bigger affair. It is common for parents or grandparents or the uncles and aunts to hand feed the children until they are older. Definitely older than the toddler stage and I have seen children as old as 7-8 being hand fed. If you compare it to the baby led weaning in this country where 4 month olds are supposed to feed themselves, forget the thought and don’t even go down that road. 

Every bribe in the book may be used for every bite the child takes, stories narrated, tv turned on and it may become a song and dance show too. The children are not just fed by the adults but the child and the feeder may move around as per the child’s whim and fancy. It is completely normal to follow the child outside the house, up to the terrace etc etc. Imagine my shock when I saw my in-laws with a bowl of rice following my kid on his scooter in the cul de sac as I came back from work one day! It was not funny and I had to do a mad scramble to bring the party inside and let them loose in the back yard. 

Anyway coming back to me, I think I was a definite challenge in the feeding battle. I was picky, shaky, cranky and unpredictable during meal times and generally hard to please. My mother was and remains an excellent cook and now that I think of it, basically anything she cooks is mind blowing. But starting at the age of 4, I had my own likes and dislikes. I liked to eat the food that my best friend’s mother cooked. Exasperated with my refusal to eat the home cooked food, my mom would have my lunch sent to my friend’s home. I would happily eat the food thinking my friend’s mother had cooked it. This became a habit for quite a while. 

The few meals I ate at home were Battles of Rice! I hated rice and even today it is not the most preferred food for me unless there is fish curry served with it and that is the only way you will get me to eat rice. My parents would try every trick in the book to get me to eat rice and there were days when I was told by my father that I couldn’t leave the table until I had finished the meal. I would be still be sitting at the table 3 hours later equally stubborn with a full plate. I would eventually fall asleep at the table and my dad would pick me up and put me to bed and I would have won that battle. Somewhere along the line he gave up after the first two disastrous tries to make me eat rice. How could one not like rice was his dilemma? Well I didn’t..

Then came days and a few years when I moved from the meals at my friend’s place to eating my Bhaiya’s food. Now who is a bhaiya? Growing up as an army brat, we always had a couple young men as helpers for my dad. The young man “bhaiya” would help my father but he also helped around the house. He would help keep the garden and take me to school and bring me back. Well my Ram Naresh bhaiya was the nicest and I was very attached to him. He would tell me stories and folk tales and I decided that he needed to share his food with me. So I would eat my bhaiya’s langar ka khana (cafeteria food) and the poor man shared generously. My mother who was at her wits end, would give the bhaiya the food she cooked while I ate his food. Bottom line, I think I just liked to help myself to other people’s food if I liked them. Thank god, I lost that habit along the way..

As I started elementary school and I think I was in second grade, I would take a lunch box and a little snack for recess and my mother would pack it diligently every day. To the shock of her life, the lunch box and snack box was empty every day when I got home. She would look at the lunch box daily after school and ask me if I ate and I would tell her what she had packed and that I had eaten everything. It was obvious I was lying through my teeth. How could a child who did not eat her meals cooked at home finish her lunch box at school. May be it was peer pressure my mother wondered, but it was a tough sell. Too good to be true she began to realize knowing my habits at home.

So much so that one day she asked my beloved bhaiya to spy on me and he did. The skunk spied on me during recess and lunch time and came right back and reported to my mother that “baby” was not eating her lunch or snack but feeding the stray dogs and the birds. By the way, all little girls were addressed as “baby” and boys addressed as “baba” when I was growing up. Well that was it, and my mother went and complained to the school principal that I wasn’t eating my meals and throwing the food away. My own mother went and tattled to the school principal! And so from 2nd grade through 4th grade, I had to eat my meals in the Mother Superior’s office. Everyday! Can you believe my luck? I was at a Catholic school and if Mother Superior wasn’t there, I would have to eat my meal with some other nun. No mercy on me..

It was a miracle that I still liked my bhaiya even after all the betrayal. By 5th grade, I had graduated out of Mother Superior’s office and eating with my friends under the watchful eye of the bhaiya. 

Thinking about what I put my mother through, I now know I was a nightmare. I know what goes around comes around, but I have been immensely lucky as a parent. Thank god my kids were not like me. My kids were easy babies and even easier to please as children. They ate everything I cooked and loved the food. The smarty pants I am, I raised them to eat all foods including the ones I disliked or didn’t eat. I didn’t want karma to take revenge on me and so I took extra efforts to prevent the nightmare I was. My kids do eat eggplants and celery and rice and a whole list of foods I don’t eat. All that education in nutrition put to good use. 

As for me, I have gotten slightly better. I have stopped eating other people’s food even if I love them.  I do eat the whole plate of cut-up fruit that my dad prepares for me daily or the 500 calorie milkshake he makes for me specially when I am in India. I do eat a couple bites of rice at lunch time when they ask me to eat and on occasions I have taken a bite or mouthful from the hand that comes my way to feed me even at this age. My parents still continue to feed me and now I cherish the gesture wholeheartedly. I do wish I lived closer to enjoy the love and care and today I will eat every bite of rice that comes my way. 

This summer marks 29 years since I came to this country. The preparation and the process that led to my moving to the U.S seems surreal now. Back in those days and I really mean back in those pre-internet days in the late 80s, everything took time. My decision to apply to graduate schools meant multiple trips up and down from Vile Parle to Churchgate in Mumbai because that was where the United States Education Foundation of India (USEFI) was located. All the information regarding universities and the process was at USEFI. I used to spend hours going over the big books looking up programs and universities. Where everyone around me was heading into engineering programs and had resources and support from their schools and peers, I was alone. Hard copies of the applications were sent through global mail and the wait for those admissions was nerve racking for 8-12 weeks if not more. However, the joy in my mother’s eyes when the acceptances from schools started coming in is still fresh in my mind. The pride in my father’s voice each time I called him to tell him I had been accepted was palpable.

The visa application process was an adventure by itself as I had to leave the house at 1.30 am with my cousin and his friend to head to Breach Candy for the US Consulate. In those days people had to line up outside the Consulate the night prior just to get in for an interview, so the three of us (me and my two protectors) left the house to go line up. I thought that night was doomed right at the start as we were stopped by the cops a few blocks from home while walking to the taxi stand. The cops as it turned out were concerned about a young woman out on the street with two men at that ungodly hour and actually gave the three of us a ride all the way to Bandra and made sure we got a cab before driving away. Chatting with the cops about my future and getting to sit in the police van was a first for us. One cop even asked us to call him to let them know if I got the visa 😂 My luck seemed to have changed right then.

I was 8th in line outside the Consulate with my papers in hand at 3am and my answers ready for the visa interview. Everyone around me seemed so confident that they would get the visa. I was cautiously optimistic as the process had taken two long years and had been full of hitches. After all, I was a serving army officer’s daughter and had a lot going including setting up the finances. Even the GREs I had taken were cancelled due to cheating scandals. I was however equipped with three scholarships as I had applied for several.

The nervousness reached its peak when a Consulate personnel walked out at 7am and started checking the documents of the people lined up to let them in for the interview. I could not believe my eyes when the six men ahead of me were handed their documents back and asked to leave. Some started arguing, a couple pleaded but the man didn’t budge from his decisions. Now came the turn of the young man ahead of me. The “cool dude” for the 4 hours that I had known him for seemed to have lost his cool. He had became so nervous that he couldn’t even hear the man’s questions. The Consulate person asked him three times where he was planning to go and this guy kept answering with his name. The only thought in my mind was that the “dude” was going to get the Consulate person so mad that he would reject him and then I would be rejected too as I was next. I could not watch the shipwreck, so I did what any desperate person would do to save themselves as the ship sank. I jabbed the “dude” in his back with my pen and his body jerked awkwardly, but his mind fell in place and he gave the right answer. My efforts to save him did fail though and he was rejected, but the Consulate person started laughing as he had been a witness to my act of desperation.

As he addressed me next and asked for my papers, I could see him smiling with a twinkle in his eyes and I said sorry sheepishly. His question to me as he went through my papers was exactly the same “ SO where are you going?” And I told him and all he said was “ok go”. That was it, two words. “Go where?” did he say go inside, my mind was churning, so I managed to ask “Go inside?”. My heart sank thinking I was being rejected outright and he was asking me to leave but he still had my papers. He didn’t even think I was good enough to be interviewed. My mind started racing, and how could I leave without my papers so I asked him for my papers. I could see my cousin and his friend were closing in on me as they thought something was amiss. Hundreds of people were watching me go down. The Consulate person looked at me straight still smiling and said “Go home now and come back at 4 to pick them up with your visa”.

Before I could even say thank you, the two young men had kidnapped me and literally carried me out of there in excitement. No one wanted the man to change his mind! People started stopping us and asking me what I had done to get the visa as the whole thing had played out on the sidewalk.

By 7.30 am half of Mumbai and India had been woken up and notified that Ashwini had the visa and she didn’t even have to enter the US Consulate. People who didn’t even know I was applying for a US visa knew I had the visa. Even the cop was called and notified. This was quite the feat by the men because all this happened from the pay phone at the small tea shop in Breach Candy. By the way, to this day I have not entered the US Consulate in Mumbai.

The journey to the US after that in 1990 marked the first time I had traveled outside of India, first time I had ever sat in the plane and the first time I had traveled alone. The whole extended family, friends and their neighbors descended at the airport to say bye. Amidst excitement, anxiety and some fear of the unknown I made the journey via Frankfurt. The crew on Lufthansa and maneuvering Frankfurt airport definitely did not help with with anxiety and fear part. I made it to New York though on a beautiful summer afternoon and also made the trip from JFK airport to Hartford, CT.

A young girl diminutive in size but with big dreams. Her dreams larger than life and the passion to make it on her own over riding any doubt anyone may have had. A girl of not quite 20 carrying the hopes and dreams of her parents and trying to make it in an unknown land. And not to mention the pressure from all the people who had questioned my parent’s sanity by sending me alone to the US. “Why can’t she study in India? How can you agree to this? Get her married and then she can go wherever she wants with her husband?” were some of the questions my parents had to deal with. I am thankful to my parents for having given me the wings to fly and they continue to be the wind beneath my wings.

The journey of this young girl with all her belongings packed in a small Indian made VIP suitcase and a back pack has now spanned almost three decades in this country. And what a journey it has been. The first few years of struggle to make ends meet were the happiest because the sense of independence and achievement outweighed the hardships.

My first job started out as a dishwasher in the University Dining Hall at the minimum wage of $3.80 per hour and soon I became quite the expert at moving the dishes on the conveyor rack to wash them. It was a life of juggling multiple jobs and some quite creative now that I think of it. By the time the second semester rolled around, I was a Resident Assistant in the dorm, so my room and board were free and I was a Graduate Assistant in the department, so I received a stipend and a tuition waiver. You might want to note that I didn’t stay in the dishwasher position for too long and moved up the chain to an awesome $6 an hour position that the student managers made. The friendships made then in the dishroom have managed to last the three decades and will hopefully continue to last a lifetime.

In my two and a half years of academic life at the University, I also worked as a babysitter/nanny for a professor’s baby and he not only paid me but also helped with the data collection and statistical analysis for my MS thesis and then there was a stint as a waffle and donut maker, a summer gardener, and a menu board writer for a restaurant thanks to my penmanship. So all in all I might say I had quite a good gig going as a student.

Time flew fast though and if I wasn’t working some job then I was spending late nights studying in the library, trudging through knee deep snow to get anywhere and loving every minute of it.

The last 29 years have been filled with excitement and activities that have seen a cross-country move, marriage, kids, jobs, and even a doctorate degree. It’s been a fun ride even though sometimes the rollercoaster may have seemed to hurtle out of control. There have been ups and downs but not one day have I regretted the decision to move from my country of birth. This country has accepted me wholeheartedly and given me the people I care for, and showered me with immense love and respect.

As a woman, and more so as a woman of color, the opportunities have been plentiful. If there was a glass ceiling, it has been shattered and I wasn’t even aware of it. I have been given opportunities to thrive personally and professionally and I understand I am incredibly blessed to have received them. If there is such a thing as the American dream, I am living it. So after 29 years, even though I miss my country of birth dearly and yearn to visit, I know I am home.

This post is my afterthought or is the direct result of someone close to me recently reminding me that I was almost 50. Age has never really mattered me and I had never given it much thought until then. With an extremely busy work schedule, my struggle has been mostly focused on finding the work-life balance I so desperately seek. I check off every day and then every week and it seems like time just flies. My check list of “To Do” merges from one day to another and so it continues. So just like any other day, the birth day comes and goes and I keep playing catch up.

Well now I have been reminded that I am close to turning 50. I have been constantly told by people that I don’t look my age. I have been told I am too active for my age, to slow down, and to rest! I have been asked by many to stop running as I am going to destroy my knees and one person even told me that the orthopedic surgeon would love me because I would give him business when I needed knee replacements. The list of advice goes on and on.

Someone recently even asked me to act my age which stumped me.. what are the expectations from me? How is an “almost 50 year old” supposed to act? Is there an instructional manual on “What to expect when you are 50”?

But at the bottom of it, now that I have been reminded, I am proud of my age. I don’t hide it.. heck for a premie born at 33 weeks and barely 4 lbs, I have done fairly well for myself. I made an entry into this world almost two months early and I have survived and thrived.

I have heard the adage.. don’t ask a woman her age, well you can ask me mine. There is nothing to hide and what do I hide and which year? Each year has a special place in my heart. Can I hide the year when I had my first crush? Can I hide the year when I had my babies? Or should I hide the years when I obsessed over having a baby girl and went through heartbreaking miscarriages. I cannot possibly hide the year when I ran my first race or the years when I climbed Half-Dome or hiked down the Grand Canyon. Or all my travels and adventures… the years when I traveled to Guatemala or Turkey or Spain or may be Iceland? What year should I pick to hide?

There have been years with extreme highs and some years with deep lows. Each high or low is a reminder of who I am and my experiences and I am not ready to give them up. Where each high has filled me with happiness and joy, each low has torn me apart but made me stronger to withstand the storms. I can’t figure how to give up even one minute of these “almost 50” years.

So as I turn 50 soon, I am aspiring to be better and do better. I am willing to accept the grey’s, the wrinkles, the jiggles and all. If the glasses make me see better, then bring them on. I won’t be hiding my age but celebrating it because my Version 5.0 will be the best one yet. So here I am “almost 50” and proud of it and glad every minute shows.

So I am bringing my blog out of hibernation. It’s been four months since my last post and there are no excuses of course. I love to write so there shouldn’t be an excuse but life happens and sometimes things just get in the way. The topic I decided to write in this post was suggested by a dear friend. It’s a hard topic and tough and as brutal as it gets. It’s about dementia. Dementia is not unknown to me as I have worked in skilled nursing facilities for over a decade. Most of my elderly patients suffered from dementia due to Alzheimer’s or other conditions. Repeating answers and responding to the same questions over and over again became second nature. Patience took on a new definition and one had to develop truckloads of it. However, when I was working in skilled nursing facilities, I never once imagined that I would be caring for a loved one in the same situation one day.

In the past two years, we have been caring for my 83 year old mother in-law who is showing signs of dementia. At first, the signs were subtle and fuzzy and we weren’t sure but soon things started spiraling down. It has been tough to cope with the situation especially knowing the person who is affected with it. My mother in-law is a feisty woman and has always been. The only word that comes to mind is a firecracker. She is a singer cum lawyer cum social activist cum author. She was a singer and would have loved to make a career out of it but her family’s financial circumstances led her to take on a job. She completed high school, her bachelor’s degree and her law degree after she got married as she balanced her family life with kids, work and other commitments.

After taking an early retirement from her job, she founded an organization for women 35 years ago and has been instrumental in providing education, legal aid, shelter and vocational training to women and the girl child. I have never known anyone who would travel hundreds of miles to barge into a stranger’s home and rescue a woman out. It takes immense amount of guts to stand up to abusive men in a patriarchal society and she just does it.  When most people would run the other way saying “it is none of our business”, my mother in-law would make it hers. She has not earned a single dime for all her efforts and in fact has put all her retirement money into this cause.

So when the first signs of dementia started cropping up, we were in denial and started sweeping it under the rug but very soon that wasn’t possible. Today we find ourselves repeating and answering the same questions again and again and if that is all we do, we call it a “normal” day.  Now don’t get me wrong or get the idea that this post is going to be a narration of a dismal state.  In fact quite the contrary, as we have found humor in situations where there was none and have found ourselves laughing more than ever.

The dementia has led to some interesting episodes and even my mother in-law has had a good laugh about some of them.  She is now fixated with everything in the kitchen from cooking to dish washing and wants to feed everyone.  For instance one evening after I had finished cooking dinner, she chopped up 6 onions for no apparent reason and we had to make sure we cooked foods accordingly for the next few days to use up the ton of chopped onions.  The urge to chop onions didn’t end there as we found her with more onions ready to be chopped the next day morning before the morning tea was even brewed.  My husband made a mad scramble to save the onions from sure death but those poor onions were doomed as they got chopped while he was in the shower. Chopped onions were followed by dough being kneaded in a sudden need to make a lot of bread and I think by the time the obsession ended we had enough chopped onions and had made dough to feed the entire neighborhood.

Then there was a time when she insisted on cooking my husband’s favorite foods only to find that she had completely forgotten her own plan and ended up repeating the previous day’s menu.  She still had the smarts to slyly state that she wanted to compare her cooking to mine and see which one was better. Or when she asked me to eat dinner and I reminded her I don’t eat dinner and she came back with a retort saying “I know you don’t and there is none left for you as I finished it all”.

December started with a period of two weeks when she thought it was my birthday every day.  My birthday went by in October, so the first couple days we corrected her but it didn’t faze her.  She was intent on celebrating it and so we decided to celebrate.  Why would I fight a celebration and disappoint her and so we did again and again for exactly 12 days before she moved on to other things.  I think I am done celebrating my birthdays until I am 60 years old! Just pretending it was my birthday everyday was fun and I am overwhelmed that she cared enough for me as her daughter in-law to have wanted to celebrate.  The happiness she felt was contagious enough for me to feel special.

She has also become the plate police in the house as no orphan plate, bowl or glass can be left as is. It will find its place in the dishwasher right away regardless whether it is clean or not. This fixation has led to the dishwasher being opened while it was still running to it being unloaded while still dirty.  The household has now been gifted with this priceless sign for everyone to read and even the teenagers don’t need extra cues to clean up!

Dealing with dementia has been a learning experience for me for sure. For starters I have finally learned to use the remotes to operate the television.  My mother in-law spends her days watching the TV shows and invariably presses the random buttons and shuts off the TV, sometimes as many as five times in a half-hour episode.  So now I am running up the flight of stairs to her bedroom as soon as she calls and getting my steps in so that I can get it started lest she miss the climax in her show.  For a person who doesn’t watch TV, I had never bothered to learn how to turn it on and trying to get her serial back on while she was missing her favorite episode was stressful. It was like a blind leading a blind so finally I had to educate myself in the art of turning the TV on.  Those who know me well know that it is a very big accomplishment for me.

There are several roller coaster moments throughout the day and even though we have the scary moments that shake us, we have found that humor has made it easier to handle. Sometimes she worries us by not eating and then some days she can enjoy two dinners followed by dessert each time. Who else can belt out a song in the middle of a party and not even feel an ounce of inhibition and how can one not enjoy the moment? Or how can I not enjoy the moment when she sings just for me while I work or join her in singing some of my favorite melodies and who else would give a bathroom singer like me the applause I get? So for now we are making the best of the moments and making memories and not worrying too much for what the future holds..

I have been thinking of writing on the topic of love and marriage for a while now.  As a woman who just celebrated 25 years of marriage recently, I have been contemplating a lot on this topic.  The contemplation comes from my own experience in love and my marriage and of my friends and family around me.  I always wonder what an ideal marriage is or sometimes what is normal? I come from a family where my parents just celebrated their 50th anniversary and most marriages in my family have been long lasting.  I have seen my parents go through ups and downs but one thing that has stood out is that they care for each other and always have each other’s back.  Always..

I see marriages that are obviously thriving and some struggling and some failing and I have wondered what is it that makes or breaks a marriage?  What happens to the love as the marriage struggles or falls apart from the same old adage of not “seeing eye to eye” anymore.  As I just completed 25 years with my husband, the first thought that comes to my mind is that “Boy that was crazy hard and I made it” even though I may have scraped through 🙂 It is not because I don’t love my spouse or care for him, but just the plain fact that marriage is hard. Once the fiery love and passion slowly burned down to a quiet fire, it has taken quite a bit of work from both of us to make it work.  There have been lots of highs and lows and sometimes the lows have lingered for a long time and it has left me wondering if we will make it.

All kinds of thoughts come to my mind.  I always knew that love existed and believed in it, but I don’t think I knew what love actually was until it happened to me.  How could something like this exist? The overpowering, all-consuming, unable to breathe kind of intensity evoked by the mere thought of the person.  The emotional roller coaster ride that came with it turned my world upside down.  How does one prepare for this life changing event? Is there an appropriate age for this type of love to happen? What happens when this “love” happens later in life? What happens when you realize that you didn’t end up with the love of your life? What happens when you realize that your partner is just your partner, but not the love of your life or your soulmate?  So many questions and I struggle to understand.

Reading about love and the so called “happily ever-after” endings in fairytales, never once was it mentioned that the ending may differ sometimes. Not one tale ever stated that you would find the love of your life but you may not get to spend your life with the person.  How come we are raised in the false beliefs of the happily ever-after possibilities? Sometimes you realize that love does hurt and the two lives may be too different and the distance too wide.  Sometimes you realize that the life you expect may never become a reality and all that is left are your dreams. A make believe world that stands above all and the heart rules. What happens when you realize that your love may just burn out slowly and the embers may finally consume you.  Would letting go of the person be the only saving grace?

I have realized that love does not conquer all, but I am grateful for having experienced the love.  And even though I feel like I scraped through after 25 years, I am thankful for the experience and there are many out there who never had a chance to experience what I did.  Thus, even though I may not have had the ideal happily ever-after, I still thrive on having the love and that is my fairy tale.

Summer is here in full swing and with the warm weather brings warm memories of my childhood.  The mere sound of a cricket chirping as I sit out in my backyard takes me back in time to old British homes on remote army bases where my childhood was spent.  The stone façade, the crumbly white washed walls with a gecko stuck high in the corner, vibrant bougainvillea draping the front porch and trimmed hedges are etched in my mind.  The cool night time breeze rustling the branches and watching the tresses of the old banyan tree dance in the shadows of the street lamp would make for a perfect backdrop for my grandfather’s stories especially the ones with ghosts. I would sit there listening to him mesmerized and petrified, but unable to leave. Sleeping on the tarp watching the lightning bugs was a favorite pastime too.  Summers were happy..

I know I have plenty of images from my childhood as vivid and vibrant as if they happened yesterday. A mere smell of a certain spice brings a flood of warmth from my mother’s kitchen that envelops me into this happiness or just listening to old songs make me nostalgic for a time well spent.  My most cherished memories are embedded in the ritual of eating something special for breakfast every Sunday morning..or just the thought of mango milkshake brings memories of hours of swimming and the shake waiting for me the moment I got home hungry. No other elixir in the world could match the simple lemonade in my hand that my mother would stir up during summer evenings. Summers were simple with time well spent running around with friends, falling off the bikes, skinned knees, playing in each other’s houses, cards and scrabble under the candle light as the lights were out for more hours than they were in.  Summers were made of cranky old fans that struggled to blow air and I would have my face so close to them that I would risk getting my nose chopped off. Summers were made of mosquito nets my father insisted on putting up every night even though I hated them.  The only way I slept under them was by imagining myself to be a princess and sleeping under a canopy.  The simplicity of a wholesome childhood..

As I moved away from my environment and started my life in another country, I continue holding on to my past and cherish it.  It was an experience I felt was needed and was important for my kids as they were being raised in a different environment than me. Every parent I knew told me to enjoy the kids as they would grow up fast and boy they did! It seems like a blur as I was just changing diapers on two little ones and pushing the double stroller and now they are both in college. The daily grind of trying to maintain work-life balance made me want to spend every single moment I could with them. That’s how you make memories right..and I wanted my children to make memories from our daily rituals just like I had, however mundane they might be.             

There is no other word but mundane comes to mind when your life is packed with a 45 minutes bear of a commute, a workaholic husband, two boys, one hyper dog and one bossy cat and then you can add exciting stuff like baseball and lacrosse practices, and games, and groceries, cooking meals and doing dishes, and of course homework and book reports.  Whoever came up with diorama projects for second graders never had kids for sure because you can add a rushed trip to Michael’s Craft Store 5 minutes before closing time to all the exciting daily activities. In my career as a parent, we have also made a frantic 11.30pm trip to Kinkos for a project printout a particular teenager forgot to work on until the night before it was due. It is the time when you have a choice to drive the child who is frantic to get the printout or play the tough love card and let him suffer the aftermath of his procrastination.  All in the name of memories that you can talk about and laugh twenty years later I guess. 

Summers were about summer camps and keeping the boys busy with activities and planning play dates when they were young. They have been always been about camping out in the open, pitching tents, and making s’mores. They are about hiking and swimming and grilling burgers. So even though there haven’t been as many skinned knees thanks to the knee pads, there are plenty of memories of ER visits for rollerblading accidents, skateboarding mishaps and lacrosse injuries. Every fracture and concussion added a new crop of grey hair to my head and a truckload of intense memories, while the boys were more excited about choosing the color for the cast.  

So here is hoping that both my boys individually have enough memories that will get triggered by the sights, and sounds to carry forward as they step into adult life.  Here is hoping that they recognize the smell of summer..

Lately, or may be in the last few years I have found myself to be changing.. the change has been on multiple levels and I am not sure if it can be attributed to middle age or just plain getting old or older.  I am finding that I am yearning for simplicity in my life, in my actions, in my relationships, in my interactions and in my associations towards others and also my environment. For some reason my quest for simplicity sounds highly complicated, and may be it is. Trying to un-complicate my life is not that easy but I am trying my best.

I have always been a homebody, happy to take a book, my cup of chai and curl your toes on the sofa kinda girl especially as the evening sets in. I have never been much about dinners out with girlfriends or movies or girl’s night out etc. It has labeled me as “boring” by many and I know I am and own it wholeheartedly.  May be that makes me different from the norm but that is how I have always been. If I am not home, then I would rather be on a hike somewhere in the mountains, or running or biking. Growing up I had seen the constant struggle my mother used to go through with my father avoiding social gatherings regularly. As a child I thought it was funny that my father who was very friendly and well-liked by all and someone who had lots of friends, shied away from social gatherings if he could help it and always wanted to be home. My mother’s struggle came from being caught between her husband’s idiosyncrasies and her need to socialize and maintain relationships. Well, four decades later I think I have become my father..after all the apple doesn’t fall too far away from the tree. My father would whisper to my mother in her ear to leave the party early, and I just text my husband away asking to leave.  Looks like I just gave my secret away!

I firmly believe that change is the only constant and my transformation is part of this process.  The physical changes in my body have been brutal..the added inches to waistline, the love handles, the tires all around, the sagging body parts better off unmentioned, and the struggle to remain fit is ever present.  The beginning of wrinkles and crow’s feet when I smile are a proof of every experience my heart and soul have been through…each up and each down hides in that crease that runs across my forehead and sometimes the down became such a familiar space that I felt like I lived there.  And let’s not go to the hair where the greys outnumber the black now and the money invested in those boxes of Clairol’s magic potion to hide the greys is outrageous.  But, I am thankful for the head full of hair when there could be none and the greys bear witness to every struggle I have been through.

Where the physical changes seem to be out of my control, it is the non-physical changes that mystify me though.  I have become more reclusive and spending time alone..more so I love being alone.  I enjoy my own company and nothing appeals more to me than an evening spent in cooking and spending time with family.  Sometimes, I find myself refusing invitations to social gatherings even though I know I will be among friends and if I am out with friends, I can’t wait to get home.

I am unable to fathom why this change has happened, but the shift to solitude has been my decision. My sense of socialization has shifted to going on hikes with my friends rather than a dinner somewhere.  I look forward to my time outdoors every weekend and nothing rejuvenates me more than being amidst nature..just me and my dog.

The power of nature is the most profound..and I have begun to find myself and my place and purpose on this earth.  With that sense of realization..it is hard to let go and find something else to do.  I am embracing the change which reminds me to put my soul first and take care of it.  This change reminds me of hot summer winds and warmth on the cheeks sipping lemonade on my deck, and it reminds me of winters with cold tile floors shivering in front of the fireplace.  Whether you call it solitude or loneliness, I cherish my loneliness and protect it obsessively..

Running has been on my mind lately..A LOT and so I decided to write about it. After all I am all set to run my 100th race this coming weekend. Growing up in India as an army brat meant a fun filled childhood full of outdoor activities and large spaces in small towns. I was never restricted to explore and my parents gave me the wings to fly. As a college student in Mumbai back in the 80’s, I explored sometimes alone and sometimes with friends. Going running on the beach was a favorite activity then and nothing could beat just walking in the rain for miles.

Coming to Pennsylvania as a student gave me a new level of exhilaration. Instead of the crowded streets or beaches of Mumbai, I had streets where I could walk for miles and not see a soul.  How could that be, and where were the people? How could they not be outside to see the fall colors or the snow or the icicles that formed as the ice was melting?  But compared to the crowded streets and beaches of India, I began to find the solitude of the quiet streets in a college town welcoming and loving every minute of it.  Even one person who wanted to come and explore with me seemed like a crowd. I would run sometimes or walk as I felt like, but nothing made me happier than being outdoors.  Moving to California was even better as the weather was great all year round.

I started running seriously around 25 years ago and would be out 3-4 times a week doing my thing. The feel of wind blowing in my hair, sweat pouring down my back and feeling my heart beat made me feel alive. I even ran during my pregnancies as the doctor said it was ok to do so and that did create a flutter among all the over-protective pregnancy equals disability thinking relatives, but I felt good and for once there was no one around me to tell me not to do so. I continued to run with the kids in the stroller and to hear a baby gurgle with laughter as the stroller hurtled down the street was pure joy! Life did get somewhat restrictive as the kids got older and day to day activities started interfering, but I had my treadmill to bank on. I would still go out for a run when I could and most times that meant running around 9 or 10pm at night. Night runs became my passion and I would look forward to those at the end of the day. It was only a couple years ago that I stopped running alone at night as I was spooked by a van that crawled alongside me for a couple blocks and the fear set in. I am still not sure if I should have stopped but I did for my own safety, although I still sneak a night run in with my 80 lb dog sometimes. I refuse to be scared to give up something I love, but somehow the reasoning of being safe and staying safe filters in.

I get asked constantly what I find in running or why do I do it and if my knees are ok 😀 The answer is yes my knees are ok.  They may be protesting a bit as I have been making them work non-stop but nothing like a little TLC to get them happy again. I usually get asked if I like running, and god knows, I hate the first couple miles when I start running, but I tell myself if I hate it after 15 mins of trying then I will stop.  It has never happened yet. So I guess I do like it. But do believe when I say that I am not that great at it. Running for speed or time are never my priorities, but finishing is whether I crawl across the finish line.  There are days when I do well and surprise myself and there are days when I have watched a sign on someone’s back saying “70 years old and if you can read this I am kicking your butt” and don’t ask me how many times pregnant runners have gone past me wearing t-shirts saying “Running for two”! But those things don’t bother me as I am not expecting to win a race but finish it.

Running 100 races was a goal I came up with 4.5 years ago as I was inspired by my bootcamp instructor who was about to run her 100th race then. Watching her train and move towards her goal and then eventually reach it two years earlier than planned was a phenomenal task and I was motivated to try. Actually to state the truth, 100 races seemed too daunting a task, so I started with 50 races because I had 18 races under my belt already.  My initial goal was to reach 50 races by the time I was 45 (old! I know) and I managed to reach the 50 with 7 months to spare.  After that I was addicted, obsessed, and blinded by the bling and swag.  Looking at the medals on the display rack was an elixir for the soreness and pain.  It took me about 5 seconds to increase my goal to 100 races before 50 years of age and so began the journey.

It has been a tough ride though as I have pushed myself physically and mentally in the last two years. I am running my 100th race almost two years to the date from when I ran the 50th race. What’s the hurry? Well, there are several reasons I think. Firstly, I am a goal-oriented person so I get fixated easily. Reaching the goal earlier than later was the plan especially as it is getting tougher as I get older and it is becoming increasingly hard to fit training with a hectic work schedule. Also, I didn’t want to struggle to finish if I waited. My goals are for myself and therefore running 100 races may not be that big a deal for many, but for me it is. I will get to check off the line from my bucket list.

I also try to run in every city I travel to whether it is on the streets of Mumbai or any place I visit in India or elsewhere in the world.  A couple of my favorite places where I have gone running in the last year have been Barcelona and Boston. I do realize that I am one of the lucky ones who has the luxury of going out on a run alone and not be worried about anything. I consider that as my gift and I am thankful for it. I am also thankful for my village of supporters who cheer me on and who run races with me as they are the ones who keep me going and are an integral part of my journey.  Their constant cheer of “you can do it” is the key to my success and even though I may be the world’s slowest runner, it is the only reason I am reaching my goal with 3 years to spare.

 

One year has passed since he has been gone.  A year flew by and no matter what you do time doesn’t seem to slow down even a bit. There were lots of tears and grieving when it happened but then along with the time, life seems to have moved on too.  How can you move on after losing someone who was so integral to your family web? It is ironical that along with time life continues its course too.  When he was sick, we tried our best to hold on to him, and then in death we are trying our best to let go.  To me he was my father in-law, a man I respected for his intellect and calm demeanor for the last 25 years I have been married to his son.  But as cultural norms dictated, I kept my distance and even though there was love and affection it was covert. He loved every single thing I cooked and would praise me profusely, so much that sometimes I wondered if he was really praising me or just being polite.  But his requests for leftovers the next day proved my skepticism wrong every single time. He was the proudest when I was working on my doctorate, and his last words to me remain that I would finish my doctoral degree without a doubt. Even in his most confused state when he was terribly ill in the hospital, he was lucid enough to tell me that he was proud of me. His illness did change our relationship dramatically, as I suddenly went from being the daughter in-law to caregiver and the formal relationship gave way to a more casual and loving relationship.  His dependency on me and his acceptance of me as his caregiver was endearing and for a man of few words he even verbalized his attachment for me.  It is poignant to think that it was his illness that changed our relationship for the better and brought us close.

Life is intriguing and mysterious for sure.  We take our health for granted for most part and want to live a healthy life and then we pray that we don’t suffer and want a painless death.  So many expectations from life and we don’t even spare death its due.  My father in-law was a prime example of these expectations as he lived to be a healthy 84 years of age and then fell sick and was gone in six months after that.  Just like that. It is unfathomable to think that a man who hiked up Exit Glacier in Kenai Fjords National Forest, Alaska one year could not even turn in bed by himself the next or a man who learned to use chopsticks like a pro at 80 years of age could not even pick up a spoon in the end.  “He didn’t suffer too long or too much” and “he was free of the suffering” were common statements I heard upon his death, but I know that death wasn’t easy or painless or quick for him and it definitely wasn’t easy for any of the family members even though it may have been expected.  Now all that is left are pictures, memories and rituals to remember him by, but thankfully the connections remain stronger than ever.  His favorite foods, his favorite songs, the books he loved to read and the little fold on the page he left bookmarked in the last book he was reading are reminders of his gentle existence.  The sight of his grandson taking ownership of his sweaters and jackets and wearing them to feel him close, are reminders of the strong bond he had with his grandson.  Somewhere we know that even though his mortal being may have passed on but he still resides within us and his future generation is making him immortal.  Somewhere we are reminded that being mortal means your journey towards death begins at birth and that loving someone and learning to let go are part of this journey.  Now only if it was easy to accept the logic in reality as it is to write on paper.

The ocean..my go to place.  There is no place on Earth where I am at peace and there is no other place on Earth where I would rather be than the sea shore.  The place where I forget my worries and my pain.   A place where you can enjoy the three realms of Earth, Water, and Sky and become one with nature.

The following poem is a portrayal of my thoughts and emotions when I am at the beach.

Sitting on the sand,
My thoughts facing me,
Of words unspoken,
Stories untold,
The waves keep pounding,
But my world remains still,
Where time does not matter,
And my mind on hold

Watching the waves,
Break on the shore,
Spilling the froth under my feet,
I tread carefully,
Sand between my toes,
The silky softness,
Masking its force,
And a life lesson unfolds

The sun setting,
On deep blue waters,
A fiery end into the sea,
Bringing calm as the night sets,
Blanketing the turbulence beneath,
The mist kissing me lightly,
The magic that surrounds me,
And my heart finally at peace

Random-Musings © 2017