Syndrome (Micro fiction 2)

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 As a rule, Kavneet avoided medical camps. There was no knowing how thorough the medical examination would be. In any case, she was fairly confident of her general health and doubted she was the ideal candidate to be benefitting from the exercise. Being the senior most bureaucrat however, she had no choice but to lead by example and there she was, stretched out on the examining table of a young gynaecologist. “She must be an intern, these preliminaries can’t be all that demanding,” she thought idly, more to distract herself from all the probing going on at the tail end. She sensed a sudden pause, her thoughts broke abruptly and she had to ask the doctor to repeat herself, “Sorry! You were saying?”  Kavneet raised herself on her elbows at the ensuing silence. There was no one with her, only hushed whispers behind the green folding screen. She sat up hurriedly, flicking her clothes down to cover her legs. Her heart had begun a slow drum.

“Ma’am, when did you hit menopause?” the doctor’s voice came up muffled from under her head, bent over Kavneet’s medical papers. The patient hemmed and hawed, scanning the years gone by, trying to make up her mind as accurately as possible in the now urgent air around her. “I don’t remember exactly but maybe a year ago,” the response was tentative. “There is no need to worry Ma’am, I don’t want to alarm you,” the doctor tried to recover lost ground with resumption of a classic bedside manner, “ but we will have to take a sample for biopsy to the Shah Cancer and Research Institute Ma’am, it is a routine procedure.” Fully aware of the need for dignity given her official status, Kavneet put on a brave, even nonplussed face, ‘Sure, you need to do what you need to do. But what is the symptom you are basing this investigation on?” The doctor was young and slightly awed at having hit a diagnostic gold with none other than Mrs Kavneet Kaur Ahluwalia, Principal Secretary (Higher and Technical Education). She gabbled, “Fresh blood! I had barely begun the internal examination Ma’am!” There was her entourage peeking into the door, Kavneet just decided to cut her losses and take it forward after perusing the papers thoroughly. On her way out to her waiting beacon vehicle, she overheard her PA instructing the medical professionals, “Madam’s investigation must be thorough and prompt. She is a very senior IAS officer.”

Back at her favourite couch in the beautiful Lutyens’ bunglow, Kavneet typed into her Dell’s search box, “Abnormal vaginal bleeding.” Ten minutes of skimming and she was picking up the telephone, “Schedule an appointment with the senior most gynaecologist at Shah immediately”. It wasn’t long before the officer arrived at the hospital for her pre-procedure anaesthesia and other relevant tests. The nosy hospital staff and her own underlings had been busy, the “VIP aboard” cry had gone out and about. “Relax Mum, it is a routine procedure, in fact in several civil hospitals, it is done in the OPD, they don’t carry out a dilation and curettage any more. I will be back home in half a day on the outside.” Kavneet’s WhatsApp was choking with messages of concern from friends and family. She assured her mother as best as she could and followed her PA towards the Surgical Wing on the designated day. Just as he was stepping back to let her into the revolving door first, she spoke up, “Oh no, I think I have left my spectacles in the car. Can you fetch them for me please?”’

There is no way Kavneet would have known that the wheel of destiny was about to turn. A mangy cur, curled up under the Principal Secretary’s car took umbrage at the disturbance to his snooze and lunged at the PA’s unsuspecting ankle. An ugly crunch resounded in the afternoon quiet as the angry canine ravaged human flesh down to the bone. The dog jangled at the leg and shook it like a stuffed doll. Her PA’s terror stricken howl went crashing at Kavneet’s ears so that she did an instant about turn. By the time she reached the car, her PA was on the emergency stretcher and being rapidly wheeled away to the ICU. The vicious bite had severed his ankle and there was no stemming the blood.

A month later however, the very same car was back in the hospital parking bay. The PA had repaired beautifully, thanks to the standard hospital protocol and was back in the saddle, fit as a fiddle. Kavneet on the other hand was undergoing yet another investigation on another accidental discovery. Even as she lay down to succumb to the radiologist’s administrations for the third time, he couldn’t help but exclaim, “Please don’t mind Ma’am but the menopause transition takes several and highly individual courses in different ladies. For some, it is stormy, others barely notice it. I believe your Gynaecologist is treating you for an altogether different syndrome.” He waited for a prompt then placed the camera head on her lower abdomen with a definitive wave, “It is called VIP syndrome Ma’am!!” 

Worrywart (Micro fiction 2)

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It is an emotion to run from, that guilt mixed anger; it comes

welling up at the parent’s mention of worry. “Oh baby, where are you? The weather is packing up. Hope you are warm and cozy at home! Please don’t be wandering around at this unholy hour. Did you remember to charge your phone before leaving for the airport? Have you got a copy of your ticket?  Where have you been, your phone was switched off, I was dying here with worry!” The media fed fear in the air had made dithering blubbers of Gurjeet and Ajrawar. They were driving their young daughter up the wall with their ever present and bilious concern. “I am alive here Mum, can’t you see? And I am keeping you informed, what is the panic about? Why is everyone forever rehearsing tragedy?” she was furiously impatient with their stalking and tracking on occasions.

Having raised their darling girl in the so called “Rape Capital” of India, the couple was on edge as a matter of course. Any call from an unfamiliar number on their mobiles was enough to set them off like a pack of firecrackers, “Has something happened? Is this a bystander calling them with some devastating news?” Primed for emergency responses and dreading the worst, their busy adrenaline had given them permanent goose bumps they were forever rubbing their hands down, over and over.

The family had survived many a battle royal on tense nights when Pia would be out flouting her curfew hour. It would begin with, “I am starting back in fifteen minutes,” and eventually dissolve into a countdown ending with, “I am crashing here for the night. Don’t wait up for me.”  If only she had seen how the air went out of her parent’s rigid frames before they collapsed with fatigue into their cold beds. It was harrowing for them to stare at the front door for hours on end only to pretend nonchalance at her footsteps outside.

Perhaps it was only to stem the overzealous parental concern but Pia had gamely tucked a Pepper Spray can into her bag and dutifully carried a nunchuk below her driving seat in the car. “Never look into the eyes of other drivers on the road. Keep your windows rolled up at traffic junctions during the wee hours. Keep our numbers on speed dial. Text while setting out, will you? Avoid deserted roads and highways. Ask a male colleague to tag along after unusually long hours,” Pia had pretty much heard it all. “Mum, you think a guy’s mother is any less worried about her son!”

This parent child tug of war assumed new heights when Pia took

off for the Big Apple to pursue her undergraduate studies. Her parents now exported their imagination to the digital maze. There was the social media, the digital banking and Whatsapp for remote assurance as to her wellbeing. But of course they did their weekly FaceTime, the disparate time zones notwithstanding. Imagine the rock in these happy waters one day when Ajrawar got an SMS alert on his Android phone. Pia had apparently swiped her TCDC card at a chemist’s for 4 USD. Chemist?! Oh good dear God!!  He called up Gurjeet at work, “Could it be her eye that is bothering her? She had mentioned her wisdom tooth beginning to throb a bit! With the harsh winters coming on, one never knew with the central heating, her landlord was not accessible enough at times.”

Not one to wait for the other part of the world to wake up, Gurjeet typed out a message, “Pia darling, is all well?” Back came the cryptic response, “Why do you ask Mum?”

“Well, Papa got a bank alert for 4 $, shall I ask the Aunts to contact you for any medical follow up? Papa knows the Defence Attaché posted there?”

“What are you rambling about Mum?” there was the faintest growl.

“You swiped the card at the Chemist’s, right?” Gurjeet raised it a notch.

A nano pause and then a delighted cackle ballooned at Gurjeet from across the international ether, “Mum! Your default setting needs rebooting. It was at Medici, the café round the corner! I had a croissant on your dime parents. The week’s dose!”

Enemy (Micro fiction 2)

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It is not visible to the naked eye but there is a furious amount of self-talk going on inside golfing heads just before a tournament. Behind the bonhomie and all the cheerful exclamations over the lovely weather, there are these inaudible voices in the air, “Oh no, we are teeing off from the first one, I better not mess this up, there is too large an audience!” Another voice will whittle away, “Inhale, exhale…just one shot at a time, remain focused on your own game; don’t fret over your cheating buddy!” And, “Silence is golden on the course, ration the words and for heaven’s sake, don’t lose your cool with your caddy.”

It was the inaugural Coast Guard Golf Cup and the players were going about their business at a civilized pace. Nidhi watched Tara busy herself with photo sessions. A stunning woman in her thick auburn mane, Tara had the height and that great eye to hand coordination of a good golfer but more often than not, she struggled to convert her talent into winning scores. Her apologetic air and under confident shots spoke of a diffident and divided mind. The other women golfers were used to seeing Tara hurry and skip after her long suffering caddy chanting, “I am sorry Mahesh! I don’t know what is happening. I usually don’t play this badly!”

A stoic player by contrast, Nidhi was averse to playing with women

for this one reason; they wanted too great an emotional management from outside. It irked her when lady players tried to play down a brilliant shot with a quick reassurance to the rest that it was just a fluke! She couldn’t stand the self-berating and regular guilt trips that routinely unfolded on the course. And woes betide anyone who chattered too much during a tournament. “No histrionics please,” the other women were used to her forthright manner, “let’s get on with the game, shall we?!”

The goody bags were being handed out. Their four ball made a beeline for the washrooms in order to change into their spanking new T-shirts. “I love the shoe bag, and look at this sleeve of balls. So glad I took up this game. To think I had nothing but contempt for this game once upon a time and not too long ago!” The women chatted easily and exclaimed over the colour combinations of their golf attire and whether the caps matched the rest of the ensemble. “I have not played in days Nidhi but you have been practising regularly!” Tara complained. “I just hope I don’t mess up my chipping today. You have so much more tournament experience than me.”

Nidhi fought her annoyance at this emotional encroachment on her presumed magnanimity. Genteel courtesy now demanded that she bolster Tara with, “Oh no, I am as moody and unpredictable with my shots. Don’t worry! My short game is equally temperamental and about the fairway, have you not seen me in the rough skulking under the bushes for that ball of mine? Relax. You will play fine.” Nidhi kept silent instead, taking a step back from the usual, pre-tournament drama.

As they emerged from the Golf Hut, they heard crisp metallic sounds from the Men’s tee. It was their turn soon enough. Nidhi drove her ball into a spectacular flight; it seemed to sail along the white marker for the straightest drive. There was peace for a while as the foursome worked their way through the front eight holes, building their scores in relative silence, Nidhi refusing to be distracted with self-recriminating debris from Tara. She would not acknowledge the missed shots, the penalties or the sand skill with anything other than a poker face. At one point Tara stunned everyone with the longest yet driver shot, it went tearing towards the green to some 200 yards. Nidhi applauded but retreated immediately.

Nidhi’s caddie was placing her T when she heard Tara mutter under

her breath, “My three wood is giving me heart burn. Last time we played on this course, I lost two balls in the water. And three holes here have super high trees overlooking the greens.” Nidhi pulled her glove off and stepped back from addressing her ball. She tugged at Tara and gently pulled her under the shade of the small tree close by. “Look into my eyes Tara. There are so many ups and downs while playing golf, it can drive anyone crazy with emotion. But I am telling you, each one of us here is autonomous and the responsibility is highly individual and personal. The challenges are not out there on the course. Your tallest Everest is in your mind! Quieten those thoughts. Let’s just mind our own minds! Play, shall we?"

Integrity (Micro fiction 2)

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 Anureet caught herself listening to her guest’s monologue a bit dispassionately, “Mrs Gill, what did you do to get your son into a university like Princeton? It has been my daughter’s dream for the longest time. I know I would be imposing on your time but if you could help with the essays and the LORs, you will know just the right words, your vocabulary is so good.”

An inexplicable silence mushroomed in the predominantly white living room. The guest waited for a response, just like a devotee expecting a revelation. Anureet drew circles in the thick Persian rug with her pepper pearl toe nail. Seconds dragged and the anxious mother resumed, “Her school has agreed to co-operate fully. They told us to draft the letters of recommendation and the teachers will sign them. My daughter’s extracurricular accomplishments are virtually non-existent; she has been a bit of a nerd. How do you suggest we make up for it? I can get some certificates issued, what do you think?”

Straightening up with a deep breath, Anureet began in a deliberate tone, “Most of my family was against sending Rohan for under graduation abroad. In retrospect now, they may have been right. An emotional distancing happens, kind of willy-nilly; you miss out on major chunks of each other’s lives.” It was clear that the fired up parent would not be dissuaded off her track, “But what about the financial aid application Mrs Gill? Did you submit accurate and authentic papers?! I am paying some fifty thousand rupees to have professional admissions counsellor dress up her application, the acceptance rate is so scary.”

“You know, we send our children so far away from home, all by themselves in an unfamiliar culture, there are challenges we should think of and prepare them for,” Anureet made another attempt. “But Mrs Gill, what is there in our country worth staying on for, there is so much favouritism, corruption and unprofessionalism, at least out there, it is her merit that will get her places.”

“Take some time, give it more thought,” Anureet’s note of caution

was promptly dismissed with, “Is there any way we can correspond with Rohan? Get a first-hand sense, you know. My husband will have some questions, the entire family, extended included is involved in this admissions project.”

Anureet had to smile. It took her back to her days of sweating over FedEx packets and the cumbersome labels. The whiteboard over Rohan’s study table used to be plastered with document lists and deadlines. Graded analytical essay, senior secondary forms, teacher evaluations, transcripts, art portfolio, TOEFL and SAT exams, it was all a breathless whirl, followed by that interminable wait to hear back.

“How does Rohan like it there? He must be really making the most of an Ivy League education. Lucky you to be such a proud parent,” Anureet’s visitor began gathering her folders to back out of the room towards the front gate. The hostess followed, coughing and clearing her throat to get out some more advice but in vain, the caller’s rosy spectacles were firmly in place. In the still dread that ensued, Anureet pulled out the orange and black envelope from under the mantel for the sixth time. It was from the Academic Integrity Office of the university, informing that Rohan had been found guilty of plagiarism. He was being suspended from Princeton for one year, with censure having been added to his punishment for being dishonest with them. There would be a note on his transcript saying as much.

“Mum, Mum…hello, are you there?” Anureet jumped at the sound of his disembodied voice emanating from her face down Galaxy Tab. She fumbled the gadget open, heart heavy with grief. There he was, the pride of their family, reduced to tears. “I am sorry Mum, I know what all has gone into my coming here. We have this Honor Code we sign during our orientation. I believe I have indulged in “unpermitted collaboration”. I have breached the culture of academic integrity here.”

“But how, what happened,” his mother spluttered, “You are telling us now!”

Rohan’s voice dipped and climbed, “Mum, a friend told on me. We are morally obliged to report perceived unfairness. The exams here are not proctored.  I told them that in India, students score more for reproducing verbatim from notes and books rather than paraphrasing. But they say ignorance is no excuse! What would you call my superhuman admissions effort if not collaborative Mum? I am sorry but I am coming home for the remainder of this term and the next year!”

Meltdown (Micro fiction 2)

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Kira’s mind was abuzz. She had fixed a flag on the course with her gaze and was directing a silent monologue at it, “Have you ever been on the inside of a golf tournament? Behind the order and the fluttering flags and those neatly made up quote panels you see, there is a world of inner turbulence. Golfing minds are beset with the inherent imperfection of the game. No matter how competent and skilled a player is, the winds and the turf make for fickle friends. The ball has a mind of its own. Mistakes are inevitable and outcomes unpredictable.

“I must not lose myself in the woods or the pits today!” Kira’s mental chatter got acuter. Matches against strangers gave her the cold sweats, particularly when she played as a defending champion. She tried to distract her nasty self-talk by calling out to her caddie, “Nassir! Have you cleaned my bag and marked all the balls? Keep track of the score card alright; there was also some mix up last time with the yardage calculation and yes, we will use my pink ball on the greens.”  She thus extended her anxious shroud as she fought the onslaught of other people’s natty golf clothes, branded kits, their formidable handicaps, tales of the hundreds of balls they hit in practice and their impressive tournament experience.  “Dear sweet God, let me not make a fool of myself today!” went her silent prayer as the others stretched, hydrated and practice swung their drivers in the air around her.

Asked, Kira would be hard put to answer why she was there in the first place. Initiated into the sport by her parents, she liked it well enough; it was the patronizing magnanimity shown her gender and the lack of quality training that chafed. Of the only other woman she knew to be a champion, she had heard the gentlemen say, “But she plays off the ladies tees!”

“I hope I don’t mess up my fairway woods today. My drive has too

big a slice. If I end up missing any of those stupid two foot putts, I’m done!” Kira’s fidgety fingers flew over her T-shirt, patting her shoulder blades and the back, “Oh thank god! I am wearing my sports bra. My tatas get in the way of the swing, can do without all that bouncing and jouncing.”

Neil, her husband, was approaching her from the practice bay, “Just enjoy the game Kira. You look tense, decompress a bit. One shot at a time, remember. There is no making up in golf!” She nodded absently, almost dismissing the counsel, “Will you be following me?” She wanted to tell him that his body beamed the quality of her shots and that amplified her fear and frustration.

Something was amiss today. Kira’s emotions were stealing up, almost taking over. She walked towards the washrooms, conscious of jittery limbs and a humming pinball in the stomach. “It is only a game,” she whispered to herself, “nerves are good, they are priming, I am ready to go.”  Fielding myriad thoughts, she stepped into the shaded confines of the Golf Cottage. She was reaching out for the towel when a stabbing pain lit up her chest. Her throat closed and she hunkered down slowly, breathless and shivering. Dabbing at the sweat welling on her face and neck, she pulled out her phone and dialled Neil’s number.

Having materialized besides her in a jiffy, Neil took complete charge. Soon enough she could hear her sports doctor on the phone loudspeaker, he was responding to Neil’s description of her symptoms, “You are looking at a full blown panic attack. Don’t worry; she is healthy and quite safe. Her perfectionist attitude and competitive spirit have precipitated this crisis. She must have stood there, reviewing her worst moments of play. Bad strategy! Give her fifteen minutes.”

Kira lay down on the couch, taking deep breaths. “I want to WD!”

“Withdraw?!” the doctor cheeped. “Now listen to me. You have the cognitive wherewithal you need right now. Remember the two seconds rule, no more than that on bad shots then turn to your mental pre-shot routine.”

Kira pulled together her floundering muscles and straightened up at the memory of her coach’s words, “There is no other way. You play through misfortunes. That is the essence of golf!”

Identity (Micro fiction 2)

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“About saddle discomfort, opinion is in favor of going natural down there, in the nether regions, you understand? It gives good cushioning, don’t go shaving, it makes pedaling prickly,” Ajooni had to smile at how upfront sports persons were with their anatomical tips. “And girl, bacteria loves Lycra, wash and dry and wait a minute!” her team cyclist cast a surreptitious look about before dipping her voice, “There is a cream called ‘Ass magic’, it is all about loving your bum if you want to haul 100 Km daily on that road bike you fly upon. Get going now.”

A tiny push and spring, Ajooni had swung her right leg over the saddle expertly, eyes watering with merriment behind her custom glares. As soon as the bike gained momentum, she threw back her slim neck and hooted out an unladylike guffaw at the name of the chamois cream. Ass magic indeed! Had her grandmother even an inkling of this cycling culture, Ajooni would be home, honing her rajmaah and aloo gobhi skills.

“What kind of a mother are you, tell me, letting your young daughter roam around long distances alone? And on a cycle?! What if the tyres punctured out there on some deserted stretch? She could be knocked down or worse, kidnapped. Mark my words, that cycling club she is so fond of is an evil influence on her. Our Ajooni is too naive!” the home of this adventurous cyclist was thick with these hyper cautious notes.

They were three generations living together and it was the middle one that bore the brunt of foretold tragedies. Ajooni’s mother played buffer as best she could but Bebe Ji was if anything, as stubborn as her granddaughter. The two often argued over their Sikh identity. “Puttar, it is a privilege to be born a Sikh. We have some unique concepts of the Saint Soldier, the Guru, our Mul Mantra, Naam and Hukum, let me give you some books on Sikhism in English, it is important to have a sense of who you are and where you come from.”  

The intensity with which Ajooni tuned out this indoctrination was in direct proportion to its frequency.  An Ivy League graduate, she was a do-it-yourself millennial, not exactly trusting of institutions that had let down her generation more often than not. “Bebe Ji, we just need one religion in the world, that of humanity,” she was fond of cutting short her grandmother’s spiel.

Brought up by progressive parents in a liberal environment, Ajooni

was used to following her heart and mind. At the dinner table one night, she made a declaration of sorts, “I want to cycle across India and document the ride, more as a campaign to highlight women’s safety issues on our roads,” The table clatter braked all of a sudden, multiple goldfish mouths of her family members, sucking on air in abject panic. “Oh my God, I warned you she was being given too much freedom,” Bebe Ji’s body quivered with concern. Using the dismayed silence as a cue, Ajooni expanded on the theme, “I want to prove that it can be done and that it is safe. My aim is to encourage and motivate more Indian women to step out of their fear zones when it comes to solo traveling. I have picked a challenging route from Leh to Kanyakumari, about 3000 plus kilometers. I may need your inputs Dad and Mum on budget breakdown and route plan. My fitness preparation is going well.”

That’s it. Just like that. There was no time for dissuasion. A lot had to be done. Bicycle accessories, tools, kit, spares to be bought. Ajooni’s father got busy booking her one way ticket to Leh. Her Mum pitched in with the media coverage material. And Bebe Ji settled down for what she knew would be a long haul in her tiny Baba Ji’s room. Ajooni was looking at about two months of cycling to cover the route.

Their hearts in their mouths and prayers on their lips, Ajooni’s family ticked off the days, one at a time on a special calendar Bebe Ji insisted they hang in her room. She would take the broad red marker pen and slash the date cross ways with a vengeance. Weekends came and went.

The day she was to launch on her final leg, Ajooni called to speak with her grandmother. Tears rolled down the aged eyes, as she pressed the phone to her ears, “Bebe Ji, do you know what kept me going on this ride, your Gurudwaras… our Gurudwaras, they became my default plan of action, such stunning, unhesitating, unrivalled hospitality Bebe Ji. They met my requests with good will and chai! I slept and ate there. I experienced charity first hand. This trip has changed me. You were right about spirituality being in giving with no expectation of a return.  Wahe Guru ji ka Khalsa, Wahe Guru ji ki Fateh Bebe Ji!”

Dignity (Micro fiction 2)

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 Preminder dived into Dr Neela’s eyes, there was no resisting that merry twinkle, a wholly infectious smile, beginning over the incisors and stretching into her petite, pearl studded ears. “You are a most healthy sample Ma’am, no diabetes, no blood pressure, haemoglobin is twelve plus, you are into quite a bit of physical activity, don’t worry. Just let’s get this pre-anaesthetic check-up out of the way and we will schedule your surgery. “

The patient gathered up her papers and backed out of the doctor’s room, marvelling at the brilliant young professional, “So much joie de vivre! What an amazing woman!”

Quiet as a graveyard, the hospital stretched around her. There was sombreness to patients milling about in the waiting areas and the dispensaries. Even the cafeteria smelt introspective, knitted brows hunched over plates of food. People sat in a common shroud of silent acceptance and grim fortitude.

Images of Dr Neela’s smile kept Preminder company on her trudge to the parking lot, “I am lucky to hit upon such a positive gynaecologist. It is a minor procedure. I am in confident and upbeat hands.”

At a social event later in the day, Preminder could not stop talking of her happy doctor and the affirmative energy she exuded. “Woman troubles anyone?  Neela is your saviour,” she urged her friends. There was interest, ears perked up; this was after all, the retired uterus community. Hot flashes, post-menopausal abnormal bleeding, generic fatigue were their staple diet of conversation.

It wasn’t until five days later, having completed the oral medicine dose, that Preminder texted Neela, asking for the tentative surgery date. There was no response. “That’s strange! Neela is a very prompt and courteous doctor,” Preminder cast about for possible reasons other than an ongoing operation or an outpatient visit or a ward round.  “Doctors keep terribly busy,” she decided to wait a day. But the silence extended into the long Easter week end and then beyond. By now, a peevish cloud had begun to gobble up Preminder’s good natured acceptance of Neela’s preoccupation, “How can a gynaecologist take off on a pleasure trip this long?” she grumbled to herself. “There are alternatives available, we can go to another hospital,” her husband suggested. But Preminder had taken to this doctor and would not hear of trusting another.

“Ma’am, yours is not a medical emergency. We can perform the procedure when convenient,” Neela had assured her, she recalled. And so the wait turned into a month long drag. Life put Preminder on the roller coaster that it invariably does and before long it was time to move out on a transfer. In that all too common panic of gathering up the most one can, when leaving a city, thoughts of Dr Neela came bubbling up Preminder’s busy head like flotsam. “Better get this done here before moving to a new place.”

Preminder placed the call. “Dr Neela? Ma’am, you mean the late Dr Neela?” the voice at the other end echoed out and amplified back in over Preminder’s stunned ears. She slumped into the sofa, her hand stiff on the earpiece. The hospital receptionist had handed the phone over to the supervisor. A politely impersonal tone was launching into an explanation, “Mrs Preminder, I am so sorry to inform you that we lost Dr Neela to pancreatic cancer this Friday past. We can schedule you with another gynaecologist.”

“Pancreatic cancer? I had no clue, she was so full of life,” her new doctor smiled gently at Preminder’s agonized incredulity across her table. She waited for the words to wash the distress away before holding out a metal badge. It had ‘NO CODE’ embossed on it. Preminder turned it over with a frown as the doctor spoke, “Some of us in the business of saving lives choose to die differently Ma’am. This here is a wish expressed, negating any CPR or cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Neela had done her paper work. She did not want any chemotherapy, radiation or surgical treatment.”

Preminder couldn’t believe her ears, “But how could a doctor not want the care she administers  others?”

“You are right Ma’am, Neela had access to the best oncologists but she wanted to go gently, knowing modern medicine’s limitations. No heroics, no life support, no futile care for her. She chose to manage her pain and spend time with her family, dying in peace, at home.”

The two sat in silence for a while.  “She used to say Ma’am, that the state-of-art of life’s end is death with dignity!” 

Believer

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One of our greatest fears is purported to be that of dying. The thought has come to me, unbidden, as much of my own end as of those I love and live for. I have stood idly, gazing at roads and trees and structures around me, “These will remain here, long past my exit from this space.” While watching movies of the yesteryears, I have wondered, “I did not exist when these stars were singing and dancing. Where was I?”

And then, another of those stray thoughts, quickly brushed away, just in case it brings on its wings any bad luck, “How will I die? Who all will cry? Have I not moved on with my life after such losses, my family will too?” Morbid meanderings yes, but so real, so inescapable, so defining of our fragile humaneness. And the quick reassurance “It is not happening yet, that is somewhere in the distant future, right now there is a list of things to do, the day to get through, events to attend, health and finances to care for!”

Am I alone in this cyclic, cerebral, futility? Why do I tell myself pretty much every other moment of the day, “I am not passing this way ever again?” There is a sense of a steady inching forward and that vast swathe of time gone by. And since no astrologer commits on one’s “ayush” it has certainly occurred to me, “How much more do I have to run down my bucket list?”

Some of the unease attached to these ruminations could be eased off if we just became as matter of fact about death as we are about birth. Were it to become more acceptable to speak of the unmentionable, even plan for it, we would free ourselves of the pall of unsaid things and oozing fears. Half the heartbreak at sudden exits comes from this sentiment, “I did not say a proper goodbye!” There is a sea of difference between a heartfelt farewell as against a sudden wrenching away and the lifelong agony of having had no closure.

I have pledged my organs, my Mum has divided her jewelry but we have not sat down with our loved ones to share thoughts and feelings around the inevitable and eventual separation. I know it would calm my mind tremendously to air out my misgivings. I want to be able to say to them, “Forgive me for my mistakes. I wish we could be together always. I never want us to separate. But remember me when we split. Think of me when you are eating a crusty, cheese laden pizza. Hug the silly dog for me. Picture me when you are sitting across my favorite swing. Look closer at the grass on the golf course; it probably has my DNA on it. I don’t know where I will be when not with you but hold on to me. I will go with peace, knowing I have said all I had to say to you. Give me a hug, look deep into my eyes so when the time comes, we go where we need to go, in peace and on a wing.”

It cannot be… life cannot be a meaningless accident. There is too much heartbreak, far too many ecstatic moments and pure frames of joy for this journey to be so random an affair. I therefore choose to believe!

Caddie (Fiction)

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Shamminder Kaur had started playing golf at thirty years of age. It made her stand out amongst the majority Indian women on the courses around the country who were either in their late teens or past their forties when they first picked up a club. “Don’t copy me, I have learnt it all wrong,” she was fond of saying. Her self-deprecating statements confused her playing partners; the words just did not go with the spectacular flights she sent her drives on from their flying tees. Many a mouth would follow agape the stunning trajectories her driver smacked the balls onto.

They made for a brittle bunch, the women pushing against the velvety fairway with bodies past their primes, spongy egos and spirits leveled by life’s ravages. Barely beneath their polite masks lay something raw and stinging. It called for a curious mix of stubborn courage after all and bruised sensitivity to step onto a public space such as the golf course, a complete novice. For even in the civilized world of the gentlemen’s game, there was caddie chatter, stolen looks assessing one’s golf swing, triangular updates on how the game was progressing with the others and unsolicited advice from the male golfers. For the odd woman that flowered, she did so under a cloying cloud of low expectations and that indulgent air.

“You know, they should have prizes for every lady in a tournament. This way, everyone goes home happy. Better to distribute it all than to give only one lady the trophy.” In this conspiracy of the mediocre, it suited everyone to keep peace, for women did make for bad losers. They came to golf at such established phases of their lives that it made it difficult for them to come to terms with their temperamental golfing. Many preferred to play with the non-judgmental men for this reason rather than with another woman and her strong sense of the right and wrong.

So there it was, one pearly daybreak on the Clover Greens, a drama unfolding in this world of unmet challenges. The polished exterior of the Golf Club just about kept from the public view, the gladiatorial desire of everyone from the Manager downwards to see Shamminder pitted against Aarti, the only other woman golfer of self-belief there. A late bloomer, Aarti negotiated the golf ball with pure will, no skill for her. “Just keep hitting, I barely spent one month in the practice bay, it comes by playing,” the feisty one was fond of sharing her hands-on experience with the tentative new entrants to the game. Having played several years as the club’s sole woman golfer, it had become hard to tell self-delusion from an undeniable talent. “I carry home most of the trophies,” was a refrain of sorts with her. Blessed with a tenacious desire to win, Aarti had one flaw.  Even in a game where players blamed any and everything for a bad score, Aarti had made an art of dumping each of her golfing misfortunes on her caddie. Little wonder that Teepu’s face had come to arrange itself in five dimensions, each of them confused on what to hold and where to stretch.

Like two combatants fighting for the post of Prima Donna, Clover Greens, Shammi and Aarti would stalk each other on the course most days, assessing and waiting to prove their superiority. Before long, the opportunity presented itself in the form of a Pink Golf Tournament for a Cause. The club inhaled deeply, then waited to exhale. Would Aarti take the bait and pair up against Shamminder?

Everyone got to work, forces were drawn up and the penultimate day schedule launched. Adequate rest, special putting ball, sunscreen in place, glares firmly sitting on the noses; the two took their places in ceremonial golf slacks. 

“I want a caddie who will not open his mouth at all today,” Aarti faced the Caddie Master, a fidgety Teepu skulking near the tournament bulletin board. Shammi’s regular caddie was accompanying her; a buzz had begun though, over Teepu’s replacement. Equally suddenly, the din subsided around the ongoing arbitration. Aarti interrupted the Caddie Master’s embarrassed stuttering rudely, “It’s alright. Let it be. I will take Teepu but he better not squeak today!”

And the game was off the tee with two clean, metallic notes. Like the two seasoned golfers they were, Shammi and Aarti made rhythmic progress. One played with joy, the other with a burning desire to win. Shammi had to curb her usual impulsiveness whence she would stop and wave at the wild life on the beautiful landscape. Aarti staying focused, swinging and pitching with power and precision. A day would come, like it did for every golfer, when their bodies would not cooperate but in the heat of the competition, that sobering thought was farthest from their minds.

Even in the tense scribbles on the scoring cards, the meditative nature of the golf course reigned around them. A fuzzy rich moistness curled upwards to their nostrils, the sun dithering in the wings, not ready to step out in all its golden glory yet. It was a charmed hour and all was right with the world.

Aarti drew in a sharp gasp all of a sudden; the ball had caught the shaft end, ricocheting into a dismal slice. She glared at Teepu, her eyes flashing. “Run ahead and wait for me near the ball!” her voice commanded with urgency. The caddie scrambled ahead in a mum flurry. His player though had beaten him to it and was already addressing the wedged in ball, “Watch me now, I am going to punch it well out then hit past that tree ahead to take the dogleg,” she called over her shoulder.

True to her word, Aarti went to work, executing her plan with force and resoluteness. Releasing her breath with relief as she looked up at the ball in flight, she turned to Teepu with an uncharacteristically goofy grin, “How about that? You can speak now. I give you permission. Come on, how did you like that shot? Speak a bit louder. I can’t hear you.”

Teepu cleared his throat and repeated himself, a shade louder the second time, “That was not your golf ball Mayam (Teepu lingo for Ma'am)!”

Compliment

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You would have heard these exchanges between two women.

One, “What a lovely shirt you are wearing, I love the fabric and the floral print!”

Two, “Oh, I bought it in a sale; you would be surprised how cheap it is.”

And “Your face is radiant, the skin glowing.”

Followed by, “It must be the sweat!”

Another goes, “I am so impressed with your cooking. And my goodness, your presentation of the food is outstanding.”

To which the response is, “You are just pumping me up, everybody is as good a cook I think.”

The denial mode goes on and on, “You are so fit, the clothes look so good on you.”

Pat will come the rejoinder, “Have you seen my stomach, I look at least three months pregnant.”

Don’t even try complimenting a woman therefore? She is programmed to shut it out, deflect it, play it down, fob it off outright….anything but accept it graciously. Why do women fear praise so much? Why do they feel compelled to explain?  Why is it so hard for them to believe the good of themselves? Where does this instinct for self-effacement come from? What sets them off on a lifelong of apologetic litany?

All they need to respond to a compliment with is, “Thank you; I humbly accept your kind words!”

But the fountain of disbelief that gushes from their flustered mouths is drawn from centuries old insecurity about their rightful place in the scheme of things. A baby girl is born just as affirming as a baby boy. She cries as lustily, gurgles as appreciatively and preens as skilfully. But somewhere along the way, this healthy sense of self gets buried under layers and layers of cultural pathology. Most women are not sure of their class and category. They are afraid to occupy space with a solid, self-assured sense of ownership. Their default setting is stuck on an unbecomingly appeasing mode.

Alright, so you don’t want to appear conceited, you do not want to owe anybody anything in return. Why, you may even be suffering from a low self-esteem. Perhaps you are a jaded cynic, highly suspicious of being buttered up for possible favours. Or your false modesty may just be symptomatic of a deep seated desire to appear even better than you already are. It might occur to you that a simple thank you would come across as cocky, too self-confident, even arrogant…all of them extremely unfeminine attributes.

Oh, I have been at the receiving end of this gracelessness more than once. Quick on the draw with whatever pleases and impresses me, I don’t waste time overthinking admiration. I just shower them, the compliments; they come gushing out often. But the experience has boomeranged more than once with my ending up feeling foolish, insincere and contradicted. There have been occasions when one compliment has led to ten sentences of insistent reassurance to the receiver. It is a double whammy to first praise then to raise volume a notch over the denial by the receiver of possessing the wonderful attribute you are lauding in them!

Will the day ever dawn when a woman will accept a compliment graciously without offering explanations? What would it take for her to realize that if she makes the giver uncomfortable she may not be complimented again? Also, she is losing out on a chance to feel good. She in fact, is diminishing her own value.

Let us therefore start by offering more compliments and accepting the ones coming our way with class.

Sharing

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I was born without the gene for sharing the samosa. It feels bad,

almost mean to not want to split a dosa or a bhatura down the middle. I have to bite back the effervescent negative nipping at my lips every time someone in the vicinity says; “Shall we split the kachori?” They come unbidden, the uncharitable thoughts. First off, the pleasure seems unfairly halved. The operation leaves me feeling cheated, unfulfilled. This sharing phenomenon is made worse by control freaks who declare in restaurants, “Shall we all order different things so we can sample it all!”

I would rather also wait for the entire chappati to appear from the kitchen over home meals. It irritates me to have someone tear a lovely, hot roti into two and then wave the steaming half floppy at my plate, “Here, take this while the next one comes.” With just the half, I lose direction; I am not sure where I am on the road to satiety.

Then there those, “You go ahead and order some, I am feeling quite full, I will just take a bite if I feel like it.” While you lean back from your favourite and freshly served gourmet dish, the first scoop may snowball into three, even five and you silently swallow your hunger pangs, waiting for your companion to announce their verdict on the dish you agonized over ordering. Woes betide if they should twist their lips in distaste at the first bite, “Too spicy!” How are you going to get past that bile in the throat as you go to work on the rejected food?

Have you ever sat across a risk taker foodie? They have to order something new and unfamiliar every time. This adrenaline of the novel quickly transforms into rapacious looks cast at your familiar white idlis once the disappointingly odd dish is banged down in front of them. Don’t be surprised if the exotic gets pushed aside for the pleasure of the gastronomic familiar in your hitherto boring plate!

There is an acquaintance that does this with impunity to her hapless husband. She will ask for vague edibles, take a bite, purse her lips with distaste and then pass it on dismissively to her dustbin of a man. And we all know how the brownie and vanilla ice cream gets ordered on a sharing basis. All goes well until the table comes to the last crumb. Suddenly everyone is full up, incapable of another spoon. The lot sits staring at the plate, shaking their heads as the spoonful of ice cream puddles up.

Ah yes, we are Indians and it is in our culture to be altruistic and sharing. The virtue has been exalted and given to us as a legacy and tradition. I can therefore but reflect upon my savage behaviour. Meanwhile I continue to inform company that I shall be eating the whole meal by myself.

 Lo siento mucho! 

Par

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I was contemptuous of the game. As a matter of fact, it barely seemed sporty enough to be called one. What a royal waste of hours, I would tell myself, chasing a tiny ball with a stick, yards on end!  Golf is made for the fuddy duddy fogies, I had concluded. And that hoity toity air about the golfing community, it helped dismiss the game even more.

Then one day, somewhere out of a deep seated fear of missing out on what so many seemed to rave about, came a voice. I heard myself announcing at the dinner table, “I am going to learn golf.”

I remember wheeling the trolley in on the first day quite a bit tentatively. Had I left it too late? Would my muscles rise to the event? Would I ever get on to the 'course' as they called it? What exactly does one do over eighteen holes?

Unknown to the self, I had made two sound decisions already. My golf set was smart and the coach outstanding. A few months short of 89 years, with the barest of stoop and a lifetime spent at the game, Sri Mange Lal was more institutional than the Club he worked at. What’s more, he had coached Raj Kumar, yesteryear's Bollywood star who I had a crush on in the movie ‘Hindustan Ki Kasam’. My association with Sri Mange Lal had all the makings!

Apart from a reasonably proportionate frame, thank you Dad and Mom, and an average health, I had no special aptitude for Golf. I cast about in my head to add to the pluses. I ticked them off. I was on the right side of fifty, yes.  I could drive, and how. And the golf course was close by, hallelujah!

“The balls are very expensive, alright and there is an attire regulation of some sort,” home advice had been succinct. I remember biting my lip, squaring my shoulders and exhaling calm over the dull dread that a new personal challenge ignites in our hearts and minds. Would I be able to make the kind of time Golf demanded? How in the heavens do these people manage to get from one hole to another? Hell, I will use the side gate, all those people busily striding along feel a bit intimidating.

On my first day in the practice bay, I swung wildly, alternating between hockey and broom sweeping moves. The munchkin ahead of me in the practice bay hit magnificently and cleanly. His shoulders described a confident arc as the club moved smoothly over the left on the finish, the ball sailing to the white flag. “Madam, have you been riding horses?” my coach asked me abruptly. Before I could close my mouth, he concluded from my face, “Ah yes, I can tell!”

The first day I got home after hitting some fifty balls, my arms blazed at the joints. The right one felt as though it would pop out of the socket. I just lay flopped over the pillows, staring at the flickering images on the TV, every single muscle in the body hurting. The grip, the stance, the back swing, the hip movement, it had all seemed so unbelievably easy but what was this, the ball had a mind of its own. The marker flags taunted me, there was no way in the world I would ever get close to kissing those pieces of cloth, it seemed.

There is a predictable evolution every new activity follows. There is the initial excitement, the honeymoon period so to say when it looks enchanting and deceptively glamorous from afar. As you get closer, the hard work and consistency involved becomes visible and the body begins to mold in the process of aligning itself to the new demands.  There may also come a time when the spirit becomes weak, “I am never going to get a hang of this!”

But the trick is to persevere. I did. Three coaches later and an above average time spent in the practice bay, I have finally fallen into the rhythm of playing nine holes a day. The bogey is happening, the par will proliferate. 

And friends continue to cheer from the wings along the way, just as a special one inspired with his enthusiasm and ready golfing cues when I first put my intent out there. 

Boogeyman

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Talk of ‘giving back’ to society is in the air. It resounds in the social spaces we glide in and out of. And there is a nice little futuristic tint to these proclamations. There is this ever prevalent mass notion that chides us for having received so much. The understanding is that sometime in the future, when the hour is ripe and the pronouncer settled and secure enough, they are going to teach underprivileged children or adopt a few or maybe volunteer in an old age home. “Something worthwhile that preferably does not call for too much time. We are all so fortunate; we must do our bit by this hopeless world. The times are becoming so dangerous. Surely that places a moral responsibility on us for donating old clothes to Goonj or celebrating our personal events in an SOS village or clicking the smile box while booking ourselves a movie ticket.”

What strikes me is the implicit belief in one’s immortality these plans project, as though to say there is plenty of time before the skin starts scaling and the winds go out of the sails.

It is commendable to want to do something meaningful to make a difference. The assumption here is that one has achieved enough of a personal nirvana to now work for the betterment of others. What if I were to say one’s primary duty is to one’s own development and one lifetime is not good enough to get to that sharpness? And that rather than fix the outside, if we worked on our own interiors that would earn the human race a greater, longer lasting return.

Too many of us want to accuse, protest and suspect the agencies outside of us. We foam at the mouth over the ethical toxicity surrounding us. There is righteous outrage at the violence in communication. With some, the despair is so great that we withdraw from our public spaces.

Begin by calming and cleansing yourself, I say. Reorient! Reboot! Reset the mind’s exhaust engine. Hose away the clogged consciousness; vacuum out the cobwebs sitting on the heart. Begin living the exemplary life you want to see others live. Go after the happiness you deserve. Pack your days with feel good hormones. Wash yourself in Vitamin D. Release your peeves and resentments and hurts. Please get off that guilt trip. Sit down and punch out that bucket list.

You are enough. You are here, breathing, whole and full of possibilities. Quit waiting for the grand moment. When you begin humming with a sense of accomplishment and confidence, the trees will stretch taller, the grass will go tizzy with delight. As you dump the baggage of dark emotions behind, the winds will surge through the new spacious you. Stop the chatter therefore. Shut your eyes for a moment and breathe a while. It will descend on you. The unbearable joy of being! Those tears of gratitude will come, steady in the flow.

There is no boogeyman out there. Do yourself a favour! Banish the one inside.

Pattaya (Nano Fiction)

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The air around them jiggled with jollity. Five Punjabi women on wanderlust by themselves, no marital benevolence in immediate attendance! Ensconced in a privileged bubble of petulant peach, their Christian Dior bags hushed everyone in range except the greasy lad on the first flight of his life to Bangkok with his friends.

“Aunties, why are you going to Pattaya at your age? It is a shame. You are going to bring a bad name to our country. You all should be visiting Haridwar to take a religious dip in the Ganges. What are you going to do on those beaches?”

The aisle erupted with rambunctious laughter. They wagged their Mac nail paint tipped fingers at the young flock, “We specially picked that town for all the hanky-panky that goes on there! Don’t you all know that the new sixties are the new forties?  And why should the young people have all the fun?!” A fresh burst of merriment bubbled out of them to see the boys beat their foreheads in disapproving despair.

Clad in designer linen, their fingers drooping with cocktail rings that winked, the ladies radiated an odd air of earned brashness. They had been good mothers and wives and had the self-assuredness of lives lived well enough, to give themselves regular breaks such as the one they were on.

“We will be at the Hilton, Pattaya. The Jomtien beach is better, a bit away and cleaner. Where will you all be staying?” they could afford their friendliness. “We, well, we won an all-inclusive vacation giveaway, four day, three night’s luxury at the Courtyard, South Pattaya,” the youngsters responded gleefully. Several pairs of tended eyebrows shot up at this and remained suspended under the colored hairlines until the two groups stopped to say their goodbyes at the Suvarnabhumi airport luggage carousel. “Be good!” the lads admonished the aunties indulgently. They were turning away when one of the matrons beckoned the greasy one closer, “Here, take this, we have two. It is our farewell gift to you all. Use it. Place it at a strategic point. These hotels are quick to compensate for poor hygiene. If nothing else, you can threaten them with a bad review on TripAdvisor.”

The bevy tittered away in the distance, leaving the curious young men staring down in silence at the gift. It was a six inches long, lifelike, realistic rubber lizard!