AND THIS ROUND GOES TO MY SUNNY BUNNY – AARUSH

Note : This blog is for me; in celebration of still having a career, still working at a job that I love. For not giving in to the negative comments my superiors passed when I was at my lowest during the peak of my health problem, and for not letting the depth of under-confidence during those troubled times break my spirit. It has taken me 10 years to reach here, while many others who started out with me have left me far behind; but that I am still here inspite of all that I have gone through is what really counts.
The strong gust of wind swayed and swept me off my feat;The fast and furious currents of the stream engulfed me in it’s turbulent waves;The scorching heat of the bright sun stung my face and blinded me;Harsh words bled my heart, and broke my confidence apart;
But the belligerent spirit so strong-willed;It rebelled and rose again to touch the sky;You get only one chance to live this life;You will not fritter it away, the spirit growled.
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I am looking out of the hospital window. On the parapet of the window there are two chipmunks gnawing away gleefully at the nuts my little son Aarush has thrown to them. The chipmunks are delighted at their unexpected treat; my son is clapping in excitement watching the chipmunks; both parties so unaware of the churn in the heart and mind of the patient occupying room 105 of the hospital.
“First it was a stress related breakdown called Dissociative Disorder; then it was severe Hypothyroid where the thyroid gland had totally stopped functioning. After that followed an autoimmune disease called Sjogren’s Syndrome where your body’s immune system starts attacking your own body parts, especially your salivary gland and the tear gland. The most recent discovery has been Aplastic Anaemia, a blood disorder where the bone marrow stops making enough blood cells, WBC, RBC and platelets.”
I got promoted recently.
So what’s the big deal? Millions of people around the world get promoted every day, every week, every year… What’s so different and special about my case?
Nothing very special or different. It’s only that I have reached this milestone in my life, after a lot of personal struggle, fighting many odds, after touching the lowest depths of under confidence, after having totally given up on my profession at a point in my life and after having lost all sense of life and living.
It was a beautiful day on 17th July 2000 when I became a part of the software fraternity, joining my first job in Wipro Bangalore. In our batch of 10+ freshers who had joined our project, it was me and another colleague of mine who rose to the next rank in 1.5 years, the rest of the gang catching up in the next cycle. I was in seventh heaven when I got my first promotion; I loved my work and had no qualms at all about working hard at it. And being appreciated for your work, that was a double bonanza. I saw a rosy future ahead for myself in this industry.
Few years down the line I changed jobs, joined a new company. Life went on, I moved up the ladder and became a Technical Lead in my 5th year. That coincided with my marriage and movement from Bangalore to Delhi. My husband being in the Army had managed to get himself a posting in NCR region, to NSG (National Security Guard). He had opted for the NSG posting expressly for the reason that my company had office in Gurgaon; otherwise being in the Army a NSG posting does not add much to your professional profile.
Me and my husband had been seeing each other for about 6 years before marriage; when I was doing my Engineering in Pune and he was a NDA (National Defence Academy) cadet with a sweet smile who had charmed his way into my heart. Our son Aarush was born in March 2007, one and half years into our marriage. There was a reason he was born when he did.It has been medically proven that women face more problems in their pregnancy once they are into their 30’s. I was fast hurtling towards that age and wanted to avoid all unnecessary complications if they could be avoided. But more importantly being an Army man’s wife I had to plan our life according to my husband’s postings. His NSG posting would at the most be for a period of 2-2.5 years. I wanted to plan our baby such that my husband be there with me by my side throughout my pregnancy. I also wanted him to be around during the baby’s growing years, atleast through our son’s 1st year.
In all my planning I forgot to plan for a very important thing, my career. I had been working with Arup Das my project group’s director for 1.5 years. That he was very happy with my work I had no doubt. But if I was proceeding on maternity leave just around the time when promotions are decided and would be out of action for the next 4-5 months and it was only 1.5 years in my present role; chances of me being put up for promotion were bleak. That was obvious business logic. The lady who was my Manager at the time and also a good friend pointed this out to me in one of our discussions.
Had I had the power to peer into a crystal ball and got even a whiff of how the next few years would pan out for me, I would have insisted, argued and wrangled my next promotion from Arup. But neither did I have a crystal ball nor did I have so much foresight.
My son was born on 18th Mar 2007, a healthy, chubby and pretty baby. In very filmy style I vowed to myself that I would be the best mother in the world. I would always love him, be his friend, cherish him and never give him the smallest reason to be unhappy. How wrong my vows would turn out to be.
When my son was born my mom asked the Pandijti back in Tezu (my hometown) to prepare my son’s horoscope. The Panditji thought he was born on 19th Mar. He was ecstatic; “Maaji bahut achcha hai, bahut achcha hai”. Maa aur beta dono ka achha hai, he beamed. When I corrected him that the date of birth was 18th Mar he came back the next day with the new horoscope. There was a marked difference in his mood; it didn’t seem as upbeat as the last time. On enquiring he said a little unenthusiastically, “haan, thik hai… lekin Maa ka health me problems hoga..” I didn’t take it seriously at all. I had always been a very healthy person all my life, other than the usual chot, kharoch I had never suffered any serious ailments.
But the Panditji’s words were marked. In the next few years the true meaning of his words unfolded.
When my son was 4.5 months old I rejoined office. There was a new project which Arup’s group had bagged and Arup was leading this project. I remember I was just back from the hospital after my delivery; it was not even a week since my delivery, I got a call from Arup one day. He told me about this new project and asked me if I would be interested in joining it. Since my previous project had wrapped up and I had no specific plans and I also had no qualms about working with Arup again I agreed. He asked me to send my updated profile in a specific template that he would share.
Both my hands still hurt from the 5 continuous days of IV injection that had been inserted into my veins. When the IV has to be inserted for more than a couple of days, the nurses alternate them between the two hands; else your veins tend to swell up. My IV pain was still fresh. I was in no position to type 5 years of my biodata in a word document. So I dictated my profile to my husband who very patiently sat and typed it for me; the updated profile was sent to Arup. And on rejoining office I was part of this project.
In retrospect I think that is when all my troubles started.
Around that time this project was supposed to be one of the most hard pressed projects in our company. People working everyday till 10-11 pm was normal and expected; coming to office on Saturdays and Sundays was also made compulsory on many occasions. I found myself a complete misfit in this project.
All my past work experience had always been on the Network management side, EMS, NMS. This was more a Middleware project with work on Embedded side and lower layer protocols. To catch up and lead a team I would first have to familiarize myself with the new domain. But I found that I just could not. With a small baby at home I was always tired and sleepy; my mind was never fresh, I could not focus on my work. And I just could not take the time out to read up on the new domains I was supposed to work on.
There were other changes that were taking place in my life and all of it was playing a part in the drama that was unfolding.
My husband being in NSG, we were put up in Manesar. Before my delivery I had employed a driver to drive me to office; which was around 45 kms back and forth. The petrol expenses and the driver’s salary combined; we were spending 11-12 K for my office commute every month. My husband and me had decided to discontinue the driver post my delivery and that I would do the driving. During my maternity leave my husband would teach me driving around the NSG campus; where NSG recruits practice driving for VIPs; the coal tarred road made slippery with oil sleek. We saved on the driver’s salary, but eventually the driving back and forth every day competing with truck drivers on Jaipur highway did take it’s own toll in terms of the stress it caused me.
My husband was posted back to Kashmir to rejoin his parent unit when Aarush was 8 months old. The last few months of our stay in NSG were markedly unpleasant. We had got into a panga with the Commanding Officer of 51 SAG, the NSG unit to which my husband belonged. In the Army how your life turns out depends a lot upon how your CO and his wife are; that is the accepted universal truth. One of the officer’s wife had dared to displease the CO’s wife. So Mrs Verma passed a diktat among all the ladies to boycott Mrs X. I of course had no intention to follow any such non-sensical order. But to my bad luck, the day I went out with Mrs X to the open air theatre in NSG, Mrs Verma also happened to be present there.
When I was on maternity leave I would join the other ladies of the unit for the ladies meet where you sing and dance and play games etc. But once I rejoined office on one occasion I refused to go for a dance performance which ladies of our unit were putting up for some Brigadier or General’s wife. My role was a backstage one – I was required to whistle to the beats of the song. There was another incident which nailed our families destiny in the hands of Col A M Verma and Mrs Verma. We dared to celebrate our marriage anniversary when Col Verma was out of town. I remember going to Col Verma’s residence with my husband to invite Mrs Verma to our party. She being already displeased with us had no intention of attending the party and very tartly replied that she does not attend parties without her husband. 3rd Oct happened to be a Wednesday. The officers and their wives were had a gala time and the party did not break up till early morning. Many of the officers missed PT the next morning.
We learnt later that once Col Verma was back, he individually called each and every officer who had attended our party to his office and questioned them about missing PT on 4th Oct 2007. There was one very junior officer who cooked up some excuse when questioned. It was only when he came out of the room that he remembered that he had been on leave during that period. And he of course was not expected to attend PT!
From then on Col and Mrs Verma set out to make mine and my husband’s life hell. Razzaque was always assigned duties that required him to stay away from home. In the last 2 months of his stay in NSG, he must have been home hardly for a week. Worse, he gave Razzaque a 7 pointer in his ACR. In the Army ACR is something akin to our annual appraisals. When an Officer is given a 7 pointer it means he has been majorly screwed; his fate is sealed; he can never make it to a CO – Commanding Officer. And to think that just in the previous ACR the same guy had given him a 9 pointer!
It was a very tough and troubling time for me. I am not the kind of person who can be trampled around with. It is not in my nature to take bullshit from anybody. There would be many sleepless nights when I tossed and turned in my bed thinking of ways and means to highlight to the higher authorities the injustices of Col A K Verma. But my husband dissuaded me saying that being in the Army there is nothing much that can be done. The Army is a mammoth organization by itself, with it’s own rigidly set rules and regulations. One wrong step can instead land you in more trouble. On some occasions I even had this crazy thought of sitting in front of Jantar Mantar and voicing my protest against Col Verma!
A few months after Razzaque moved to Kashmir, me and my son moved from Manesar to Delhi, Cantt area. Aarush was now 1 year old.
Once we moved to Delhi even the few friends I had in Manesar were lost. Aarush and me were totally wrapped in our own small world. It was office to home and home to office for me. For Aarush it was full day at home with the domestic helps but without either his mummy or papa, or nana, nani, dada, dadi to cuddle him and put him to sleep.
2nd June 2008 : My Tryst with Destiny
I slept late after watching the IPL1 finale. And suddenly got up at around 4 am from a bad dream. That moment turned my life topsy turvy for ever…
I got up a different person from the one who had gone to sleep. It seemed like I was possessed by my dead father’s spirit. I acted and spoke like him, calling my mother by name. I cried and worried about one of my brother who is a politician; that there was someone out to kill him. The Panditji in Tezu’s Shiv Mandir (built by my father) was rushed to my politician brother’s house on my insistence (speaking as my father) to perform Puja to safeguard my brother. I as my father predicted the win of two of my relatives who had stood for the Panchayat election that had just concluded. (Later learnt that both actually lost!) My whole household was in chaos, I as my father was crying for my family, that our enemies were out to hurt our family; my loyal man-servant Suraj who had been with us for 2.5 years was crying on the phone passing the latest status of my antics to my family back in Tezu and to my husband in Kashmir. I remember him saying on the phone to my husband, “Sir, Madam ko kuch ho gaya hai” and crying on the phone. My mother was crying in Tezu worried to death about her daughter. And of course my little son Aarush, who was just a year old. He was crying and wailing because his Mummy would not pick him up and cuddle him and was behaving strange.
My husband rushed from his post in Kashmir and caught the first possible flight from Srinagar to Delhi. He told me later that when he approached his CO to ask permission to proceed on leave and told him the reason for it, his CO tried hard to contain his smile. I can understand, it’s hard to believe that a well educated person can behave like as if possessed by a spirit.
It was a Rs 5,000 massage that straightened things out for me and made me see the situation in perspective. I should thank my husband for it since he was the one who insisted on me going for the massage.
After my husband arrived from Srinagar, I had a very violent and tempestuous session of possession. Throughout the day, the possession sessions had been interleaved with periods when I was normal and would then enquire about my son and have my meals. And the periods when I acted possessed, I behaved like my father but I would talk normally and was not aggressive. But when my husband arrived in the evening, he acted like it was no big deal and he did not pay much heed to my antics (as my father). That really angered my father in me. He shouted and ranted at Razzaque, my body quivered and shivered like in Hollywood horror movies. The 2 hour long session, left me completely exhausted and drained. When I came to my senses after that and I was Leela again, the enormity of the situation hit me. I realized that in a state like that I could end up causing myself harm.
I rushed to my small temple where I keep all my Gods and sat there and cried and cried. I cried to my Gods to give me the strength to see me through this hellish experience. After an hour or so I got up, clutched idols of Lord Shiva and Goddess Lakshmi/Ganesha one in each of my hands and made a resolve to myself that I would not let another spell of possession occur to me. After the violent session that I had just gone through, I was scared to death that if another such violent session occurred, someone or the other would end up getting hurt. And my father’s spirit when it was leaving after the last session had said “My daughter is suffering a lot. I will let her rest now. I will come back later”. Keeping away another possession spell was a tough task. Throughout the night whenever I felt that another possession spell was coming along, I’d tightly grasp my idols, ask Razzaque to hug me tight and quietly chant out Lord Shiva’s name. This way I got through that night.
The next day was better. I felt the possession urges but they were not as strong. And by tightly clutching my idols and with my determination I could keep it away. My mind was more clear and I started thinking about the whole thing. I wondered whether I was actually being possessed by my father’s spirit or was it a case of multiple personality disorder. These were the two options I weighed. The problem with being a book worm is that you gain knowledge of many facets of this world and your thoughts are accordingly developed. I had read quite a few books on multiple personality disorder and now I wondered if I was going through the same thing. The other option of actually being possessed by my father’s spirit also seemed a possibility, since in our tradition we do believe in such occurrences. Me and Razz discussed these possibilities as we took an early morning walk along Cariappa Vihar’s roads holding our hands tight. My husband felt that it was definitely some medical condition, but only he was not sure what. The only way to find out would be to visit a doctor. We set up appointment with a Psychiatrist in Vimhans and with another Psychologist. But Razz insisted that I first go for a good massage since my body was totally wreaked after the previous day’s episode.
We went to Ashoka hotel’s spa Amatra: single masseur massage – 2500 Rs, double masseur massage – 5000 Rs. My husband wanted the best for me, so the 5000 Rs massage. I do not remember much about the massage, except that I saw a foreigner in a beautiful white lacy undie in the ladies changing room drying herself. She seemed so nonchalant about the fact about she was only in a pair of briefs and that someone else was present in the room. I admired both, her beautiful white lacy undie and her nonchalance.
Throughout the massage session my mind raced and my thoughts zoomed about trying to find answers. As the two masseurs gently stroked my tired muscles, one in each direction, my tired mind grappled with thousands of questions; why did I feel as if the spirit was lodged in my shoulder blade, then somewhere around my chest and then my calf muscles? From where did I get the smell of cigarette every time my possession spell started (my father used to be a chain smoker)? If instead it was Multiple Personality Disorder how come it had never surfaced before? Whatever I had read up on MPD it generally occurred early in life. So many questions but no answers.
Once the massage was over I was sent to the sauna. I lay there on a stone slab as the hot vapours engulfed my body. Sweat started dripping from all the pores of my body, but I lay there resting my chin on my folded arms; my mind still racing, still trying to find answers. Why, How, What?
Added to the two options of MPD and spirit possession I had now also added the option of it all being a psychological issue. I was trying to figure out which of these three was actually the cause of my possession sessions. Sweat continued to trickle down my body; I was starting to feel claustrophobic in that small vapour filled room. Then suddenly I had my answer. Just like that! It was not MPD, it was not spirit possession, it was some psychological problem. I didn’t know what, but I knew for sure that it was definitely only psychological, not MPS or actual spirit possession. My mind was clear now and I was fully convinced.
I came out from the spa grinning at my husband. I told him that I felt much better and that I would like to go to a good restaurant and have a nice dinner. My husband smiled back at me.
The psychiatrist in NIMHANS heard out my story which I narrated for over 45 mins. After hearing me out very patiently he simply said, “Yes, this is a very common stress related problem in women.” I could not believe what I was hearing. Something so grave had happened to me and the doctor was happily attributing it to stress. I had heard of nervous breakdown, but never heard of stress related breakdown!
What the doctor had to say was that I was under tremendous stress, job related, managing the household all by myself, husband being away, having to look after a young child, no family support, moving to a new place, not having friends…. The stress of all of it combined together had taken it’s toll on me. Stress had managed to break the spirit of even a person like Leelalu Chai.
According to the doctor the particular symptoms that I had displayed was termed “Dissociative Disorder”. He said it is a very common problem, especially in women. Some people with this disorder would cry for no reason, some people would feel that they cannot walk, they cannot see. The symptoms would differ from person to person. In my case since in our society people believe in possession so I showed those symptoms. He advised some medicines, some stedoids.
The psychologist we visited reiterated whatever the psychiatrist had said. She advised that I take a break from my work, since that was one of the main contributors to my stress. I took a 2 month break from work and joined my husband in Kashmir, in the beautiful town of Uri. On my return I moved from Engineering and joined the training department of my company. Luckily there was a open position and many of my friends and colleagues advised me to go for it. Unlike Enginering projects where timelines are harsh and schedules are tight, they said training dept would be more a 9 to 5 kind of job. I went for it. One of the things I was told when I joined there was that promotions were very slow there since the dept was already top heavy. I was ready for it, the other option before me would have been to leave my job perhaps. This was in Aug 2008.
The Thyroid Scare :
In Aug 2008 on my return from Kashmir, I went to see my Gynaecologist for some problem. She advised me to go for a Thyroid test. Till then I didn’t know much about thyroid related problems since nobody in my family had had it. I had even forgotten the little we had read in Biology about the functions of the thyroid gland.
When the test results came back, my TSH count was 640. A normal person’s TSH count range is 0.5 – 5.5. If your TSH is less than this, you have a condition called Hyperthyroid, and more than this is Hypothryroid. I was suffering from severe Hypothyroid. My gynae advised me to visit a particular Endocrinologist in Apollo Hospital. I went to him. My symptoms were extreme fatigue and lethargy, drowsiness, weight gain and puffiness in face, bowel irregularity, irritability, memory loss and a slightly retarded thinking, forgetfulness, eyesight problem, lack of appetite, slurred speech, sleep loss, hair fall….
The thyroid gland basically controls all your body functions. If you suffer from one or the other form of thyroid disorder, all your body’s functions are affected. That was the reason I was not able to sleep properly, eat properly, my mind was not working right, my eyesight was giving problems.. The doctor advised me some medication. But the fatigue and tiredness problem was so severe for me, I’d come back from office and just plonk on the sofa. I could not even play with my son, I’d push him away and ask the maid to handle him.
I went to seek a second opinion from the best, an Endocrinologist in AIIMS. What he told me totally shocked me. He said that with a TSH of 640, it meant that my thyroid gland was practically not working. It would be the medicines which would compensate for the functions of the thyroid gland till the gland was in a position to start functioning.
No wonder without a functional thyroid I was a walking disaster. I would forever feel tired, was very cranky and irritable and most of my body functions like eating, sleeping, talking, bowels, hand movements etc were all affected. But my little Aarush had to bear the brunt of it. He was just a year old; when mamma returned from office he wanted his mamma’s attention and loving and hugging. But his momma would be too tired for all that and would just plonk off on the bed. Obviously a little baby like him did not understand why his momma would not hold him and play with him. Naturally he would start throwing tantrums and crying and wailing. That would irk his momma all the more. She would ask him to stop crying; he would not; she would then shout at him; he would start wailing all the more louder; she would then lose her temper and spank her little boy. He was just over a year old and Aarush had already started feeling the pains of the physical world, in the literal sense.
There was an instance when I came out of the bathroom forgetting to wash the conditioner off my hair. While drying my hair I felt it sticky and then realized my folly. That was how things were for me; I was always breaking glasses since my grip and coordination were affected, I could not remember where I had put things, sometimes I would forget whether I had brushed my teeth or not.
One of the ugly symptoms of my hypothyroid condition that most affected my work was my loss of memory. I would have problems recollecting the most common things that we had leant as software engineers. There was an instance when I reviewing the code of one of my junior. He had used global variables in his code. I spent about half an hour trying to remember what global variables were. That’s like a doctor forgetting how to check the BP of a patient. And after that I had a heated discussion with the guy whose code I was reviewing about how global variables should be used. I remember clarifying the concept of global variable with my colleague sitting next to me. There were other such instances, and I am pretty sure people smirked behind my back. That time I did not know that I was suffering from a medical condition that was affecting all aspects of my life. So when I faced such challenges in my work, I started wondering whether I was in the right job, whether I was competent enough for the role I was playing. During this time my confidence in my abilities was at it’s all time lowest. I would often call up my husband in Kashmir and tell him that I wanted to leave my job.
Now in retrospect I also recollect that I met with 3 or 4 accidents during this time. My sense of judgement, my ability to think straight, to make decisions, everything was affected. My personal life, my professional life, was all topsy turvy. And I wasn’t even remotely aware that it was because of a medical condition.
Sjogren’s Syndrome Rears It’s Ugly Head :
Life in the Training Dept was going smooth. After the initial hiccups of settling down to a trainer’s life (since I had never taken interest in conducting trainings all through my software career) I was enjoying work again. I have always enjoyed work all through my software career other than for the project that I worked in after my maternity break. My thyroid condition was much better now and generally I was in a better frame of mind. The environment here was very different, it was like one big family. I had made many good friends. My spirits were soaring again.
In Dec of 2008 my husband left for Congo in Africa as one of the officers in an Indian contingent on a UN peace keeping mission. Me and my son were used to staying alone; this was no different for us. Only that after a one year tenure, we would be richer by some thousand US dollars, my husband’s UN pay!
In Aug 2009 Razz came home on leave. We went to my thyroid doctor on one of my regular visits. I had developed a swelling on both sides of my face near the jaws. As usual applying too much of my own mind, I had assumed that it was the thyroid gland which had swollen. The endocrinologist said it had nothing to do with thyroid; it was my salivary gland which was inflamed. He suspected another disease, an auto-immune disease. He asked me to do some tests and come back to him.
One of the tests called FNAC, required an injection to be pricked into the swelling of my parotid gland. Then the doctor churned the needle inside my gland round, round, round and and swerved it right and left; basically they wanted some tissue samples to get deposited on the needle. You can only imagine the pain it caused. And I had to get it done twice, since the first sample’s result was inconclusive! The second time was worse. The lady doctor in Lal Path Lab was upset about having to fill in for some absent doctor and she took out all her frustration on me. She churned the needle so much harder, seeing that she was already upset I could only pray that the needle did not break and stay put in my jaw.
The other test was even more interesting. It is done only in some exclusive pathology labs. In this test they inject some dye into your inflamed salivary gland and study your gland as the dye spreads inside it. And as usual my good luck, they did it twice for me since both my salivary glands were inflamed. When you don’t know what is in hold for you, you are in trepidation of the unknown. But having gone through an unpleasant experience once and to have to go through it all over again, with or without cringing. That is called being brave!
The doctor’s seemed very excited with the result of my test. I was walking out with my husband from the lab with the test reports in my hand when we were called back. The doctor’s said they wanted to do an ultrasound test also to be doubly sure of their test result. They would not charge me for it. IMAGINE! In a place like Delhi, doctor’s doing some srervice for free!
I did not at all mind getting the ultrasound done for free. There were three to four doctors crammed into the small ultrasound room. I could hear them excitedly discussing medical terminologies among themselves. Once they were done, I was told another senior doctor would like to examine me. She did a physical examination of me, questioning me about the nodules which had appeared near my neck and on my legs. I had noticed them too but not given them enough thought. She too did another round of ultrasound pointing out the inflamed gland and some more things to a junior seated beside her. When they were all finally done, I thought I passed a very witty remark saying, “I am a medical guinea pig eh?”
They would not tell me much about the test results; just that they suspected an auto-immune disease. They said the doctor would be able to tell me more about it. Doctor Bhambani of Moolchand Hospital did. He diagonised me with Sjogren’s Syndrome, an auto-immune disease. In auto-immune diseases your body’s immune system starts attacking your own body’s cells/glands mistaking them for foreign bodies. So my immune system was attacking my salivary gland and had caused it to inflame. That was the reason my salivary gland was not producing enough saliva. I was having problems eating food, especially dry eatables like biscuits, chips, roti etc. My mouth would also dry up really fast. And I as usual applying too much of my own mind had attributed all these problems to the approaching summer. There is something great about my attitude, I am so positive, so positive that I refuse to recognize all the signals my body shows to me that it is breaking down. I refuse to accept that it could be some medical condition; rather I attribute it to environmental reasons, the weather, anything other than accepting it as a medical condition!
Sjogren’s Syndrome (SS) was also the reason I found myself peering into my computer screen like an old man, and why I could not look at bright light; why I watched TV with almost half closed eyes and why I found myself infected with Conjunctivitis every 2nd month. SS also affects the tear glands which stop producing tears. My eyes were dry and my vision was affected, extreme dryness of the eye caused me constant itching which then turned to Conjunctivitis.
As a trainer I was required to talk for 2.5 hours continuously; that was the duration of each session. As my Sjogren’s condition became more and more severe I would find my mouth drying up after every 3 sentences and I would have to take a sip of water. There was an incident when one of the trainees passed a comment “Khud to baith baith ke pani pi rahi hai, aur hame tea break bhi nahin de rahi hai”. I had actually extended the session for a little long and in the flow of things and forgotten to announce the break. When I overheard that comment it really pissed me off; what did she know why I had to drink water after every 3 sentences…
The Remedy Causes The Biggest Calamity :
After the Endocrinologist, now it was time to visit the Rheumatologist. My doctors in Indian Spinal Injury Centre advised me the latest treatment for Sjogren’s Syndrome; an injection called Rituximab. They said it was the newesr treatment for SS and that they had treated many patients successfully who were totally cured of SS. I was in seventh heaven. What could be better than total cure!
By now my swelling of my parotid glands had become very unsightly. On both sides of my jaw there was a big mass protruding out. The most honest and direct comment about my look came from one of my nieces. She said “When I saw Leela Aunty for the first time, the thought that struck me was that her face looks like a frog’s”. How enviable!
I had gone home in Oct-Nov 2009 for the Assembly Elections since one of my brothers was also standing for election. Though I totally disregarded my look and jumped into polling fray, many of my relatives were angst-ridden with my appearance. My Jijaji especially. On many occasions in his slightly drunken stupor he’d comment “Mur sobse dhunia saali tu keneka hoi gol deh…” meaning “What has happened to (the looks of) my most beautiful saali..”
Like for every good thing there was a catch with this permanent cure. I would have to take the Rituximab injection twice spread over 6 months. The first injection would be given to me broken up in 2 doses within a span of 15 days. The 2nd injection would follow after 6 months as another 2 doses. And the best thing was one injection would cost me about Rs 1 lac. But then of course I also had the choice of the Indian brand which would be cheaper at Rs 70K. I had to make a choice. And not to forget that this would also entail a one day hospitalization!
I did not see any reason to fret. I was a 1st grade Corporate employee covered by the company’s medical insurance policy. I would opt only for the best, I would take the 1 lac injection. Since this would be a planned hospitalization I informed the company’s HR personnel dealing with Medical Insurance about it. Imagine the shock of my life when they got back to me saying that unfortunately since my condition was an auto-immune disease it would not be covered under insurance!
Maine bahut haat pair mare, but no no avail. I would have to pay for the complete treatment from my own pockets. It was when very painfully I had to take the decision to go for the Indian brand of the injection because it was cheaper; I realized my AUKAD. After so many years in the software industry supposed to be earning lakhs of rupees, I could not even opt for the best medical treatment for myself.
Rituximab was like magic!!
A week after taking the second dose, my swelling totally disappeared! Many times I would find myself standing in front of the mirror admiring myself. The first time I had noticed the parotid swelling was around May-June 2009. Now it was Jan 2010. After almost 6-7 months I was looking at a normal me, without the frog like face. I felt so happy, I was in 7th heaven. My mom who had come down all the way from Tezu for my treatment was also very happy for me. She was in fact the one who first noticed the swelling recede. I would now need to go in for the second injection after 6 months so my mom left for home.
And then tragedy struck.
Towards the end of Jan 2010, I found myself admitted in Indian Spinal Injury Hospital (ISIC) running high fever and with a host of infections like inflamed gums and throat, and pus infection in one of my fingers. My Leukocyte (WBC) count was down to 400; the regular range being 4000-10,000. Like we studied in Biology many many eons ago, WBC are what build your immune system. If your body is deficient in WBC your body’s immune system is totally down. And that is why the host of infections that I had contracted.
I understood the gravity of my situation many months later when reading a newspaper article. Remember the radiation leak in Mayapuri area of Delhi around May 2009? One of the main scrap shop worker who was affected with it, his TLC had dropped to 200. He was admitted to ICU but with such a low TLC he had caught a host of infections and succumbed to his infections. If I had delayed any further in going to see the doctor, my TLC would probably have dropped even further from 400.
The doctors at ISIC pumped antibiotics and all sorts of medicines into my system continuously for a period of 7 days. They gave me injections to raise TLC productivity in my body; they extracted my bone marrow to find the reason why my TLC count had dropped so dangerously low. WBC’s are produced in the bone marrow.
When I had gone to see the doctor that day for my high fever and other infections I was totally unaware of the TLC angle to my bad health condition. But when the doctor saw my TLC count he immediately asked me to get admitted. They had hurried me to the emergency where they started all kinds of tests; blood tests, chest x-ray, ECG. I got the fright of my life when they started attaching the electrodes to my body. I thought I was in the hospital for my high fever and oral infections but this seemed something so much more dangerous and eerie. Without my husband around and no family members nearby I had come to the hospital only with my husband’s Army Sahayak(jawan). He too watched helplessly from the sidelines not sure what was happening.
Since I had to get admitted I had to take care of the insurance related aspects. Lying there helplessly in the emergency room with the electrodes stuck across my chest and all the nurses scurrying about, somebody extracting blood, somebody taking my BP, I called up my Bosses in the office to inform them about my hospitalization; I was so upset I was almost choked while speaking to them.
Without any family around and my husband away in Congo I had to arrange everything lying there in the hospital bed; my nephew studying in DU came to take care of my son in my absence; one of my childhood friend working in Delhi agreed to come after her office hours and spend the nights in the hospital with me. That is what being an Army man’s wife is all about; you have to learn to deal with situations all alone, all by yourself; especially if you don’t have any family around too. My elder brother who is the doctor in the family flew down from Tezu when we learnt that I would be required to spend atleast 7 days in the hospital.
With my TLC count being so low and me being susceptible to all kinds of infections my room was like an isolation ward. I was required to wear a mask at all times. Few visitors were allowed and anybody coming into my room whether the nurses, the doctors, the cleaning personnel were all required to wear masks, caps and leg covers before coming into my room. My young son spent those 8 days that I was in the hospital all alone in the house with the domestic helps and my nephew to put him to sleep.
I suspected the costly Rituximab which was supposed to be the permanent cure to my SS had caused this condition. The Doctors suspected it too though they would not say so in clear terms.
Sometimes spending quiet times all alone can be a blessing in disguise. Those days in the hospital with only my elder brother for company, we bonded again. Me and my elder brother have always been close, but with time things always change. Both of us were married with our own families and kids; stayed thousands of kms away from each other. Time and distance had taken a toll on our relationship; but those quiet days spent in the hospital we talked about old times, discussed our big family and all the problems facing our family. It felt like old times again when even as a college girl if I would fall asleep on the sofa watching TV my elder brother would pick me up and put me to bed.
Once out of the hospital life went on as usual. My husband was back from his Congo posting. We had tried for him to get a Delhi posting because of my illness and all, but it did not work out. He was posted to the north-east. In the Army you have to have connections, links with important people occupying high positions for things to work for you; you should either be the son, son-in-law or should have been the ADC to some General. I guess that’s how it works in any govt organization; the Army for all it’s tom-toming is the same like any other govt organization when it comes to such things.
I Am Slowly Turning Into A Man :
Life was going on, I was consuming tens of medicines everyday, after breakfast, lunch and dinner to keep my body functioning like a normal human being’s. Steroids are supposed to be harmful for the body but I had been prescribed steroids and was taking high dosage of steroid for the past 7-8 months. The side effect of steroid usage was now slowly making itself visible. The first person to notice it was my husband. One day Razz looked at me strangely and then recoiled “Chhii, you are having a moustache” he quipped. I peered into the mirror and true enough there was a thin line of hair growing above my upper lip, the first appearance of a moustache.
Being from the north-east one of the things that I have always prided myself on is the fact that compared to the mainland Indian girls we are comparatively less hairy on our limbs. Other than once before my marriage I have never had to bother about going for hair removal treatment from my limbs. Now my condition is such that every 2 weeks I have to go and get my upper lip hair removed and even go in for facial hair removal. The first time the lady in the parlour started pulling out hair from my upper lip I wanted to shriek in pain. It was the same when the hair growing all over my face was pulled off with a jerk of the wax filled cloth piece. The pain… it’s inexpressible.
Due to steroid intake my face was also all puffed up, medically termed “Moon Face” syndrome. Only that unlike the moon “jisme koi daag nahin” my moon face was full of freckles and pimples; thanks again to the steroids.
This was only the visible external side effects. Internally how the steroids must be affecting my body I can only guess, my kidneys, my liver… god save them.
And Now I Land Up In the ICU : 31 Aug 2010
The situation was more or less under control. With all the medicines I was daily pumping into my body I was managing to live life like everybody else albeit with a few small glitches now and then, like biweekly visits to my doctors, the rheumatologist, the endocrinologist, the eye specialist etc and not to forget the blood tests I had to do constantly to keep a tab on my TLC and thyroid. Then one fine day my TLC again dropped dangerously low without me being aware of it. Like the list time I again caught a host of infections; but this time around my condition was much more serious, I was running 105 degree fever, my BP had fallen 80/70, my heart rate was erratic, and with the host of other infections I had caught I landed straight in the ICU.
Hmmmm…. being in the ICU is a totally different experience. You have to give up all semblance of self- consciousness and self- righteousness. Many people would not be aware that in the ICU you are not allowed to visit the loo. The loo visits you.
Along with the host of other medical problems I had developed, I was also having severe stomach flu. In my totally weakened state my stomach problem had triply worsened my condition. I requested the nurse to take me to the loo. She disagreed; in the ICU patients are not allowed to go to the loo, I was strictly informed. I will get you a bed pan, you can relieve yourself there.. the nurse suggested.
I became indignant. I was not so so terribly sick that I would relieve myself in a bed pan. I refused. It was a war of wills between the nurse and me till she finally gave up. But I could still not go to the loo; that could not be compromised. She would get me a toilet chair. People can really come up with innovative ideas; the toilet chair is exactly like a chair, only that in the centre it has a pan. Weakened after 2 days of high fever and all other problems that had afflicted me, I almost collapsed while getting off my bed and getting onto the potty-chair.
The next time the nurse simply refused when I asked her to get me the special chair again. The solution? She wrapped a big king sized diaper around me and I would have to do everything in that. I was totally indignant initially, but man is insignificant in front of the call of nature. I finally gave in to the indignity as also the luxury of relieving myself lying on the bed; and have others clean up after you.
The doctor’s were perplexed with my condition. They did not know what was causing my TLC counts to drop so low. They did another round of bone marrow biopsy. The last time’s results had been inconclusive. To extract bone marrow from the bone they stick a big injection inside one of the bones, in my case the hip bone and extract marrow from the bone. Once again the doctor huffed and puffed and injected the needle through my bone and cranked around the bone churning the needle inside to get some marrow samples. Thankfully this time I was under locally anesthesia.
The result said “Aplastic Anemia”. In people afflicted with this disease bone marrow becomes deficient in producing blood cells. That was why my TLC count always kept dropping. The doctor had visited me before the results of the biopsy was known. He told me that with the bone marrow test they were trying to check whether I had developed non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, a condition that afflicts some SS patients. I guess being diagnosed with Aplastic Anemia is any day better than cancer.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Through all this I continued with my job. I took a 1 year break from working in regular Engineering projects and joined the Training Dept knowing well that my promotion would be affected. I started dabbling in Yoga and Pranayam. To some extent I gave up my old and fast lifestyle of visiting malls every weekend, junking on fast food, visits to discotheques.. But the pieces of the puzzle that was my medical condition still did not fall into place.
The last few years have been a tough journey for me, especially if you have to live through all this all alone without your husband by your side to give you moral support and strength; without your parents and family members around you; and only your young child by your side.
So this PROMOTION is different from the millions of other promotions that place every day in this big big world. Like my husband says, my journey of the last 3 years has been like that of Nirupama Roy (heroine of yesteryears who always played Amitabh Bachchan’s elderly, suffering mother in many of his movies) who would reach the temple’s sanctum sanctorum after an arduous journey, girte, padhte, dragging herself up the temple’s steps.
That exactly describes my journey: girte, padhte, marte hue, dragging myself in parts through this long winding road I have reached where I stand today. On many occasions when talking to people they have commented that it is very brave of me the way I have managed things. I never thought much of it. There are thousands of Army wives forced to live their lives without their husbands and still managing fine. But now when I look at the whole big picture I realize that I have indeed been quite brave.
But there is someone out there who is much braver, my young son Aarush.
He has had to face the collateral damage through all this. Being neglected through my stress related breakdown days; during the peak of my hypothyroid problem he faced the brunt of my irritable nature: being smacked for the smallest reason; through my various hospitalizations he has missed a mother by his side (with the father already out of picture) with only the domestic helps to take care of him.
But this have only made him more understanding, more mature even at the tender age of 3 years.
During my latest hospitalization when my husband learnt about me getting admitted to the ICU he landed up in Delhi that very night from Guwahati. After visiting me in the ICU he went home quite upset seeing me lying there so haggard, so lifeless. There my young son noticed that his father was very upset and probably also noticed the tears trickling down his father’s face. He took his father’ hand and planted a kiss on it. Later when Razz asked him why he had kissed him, Aarush replied “Aap sad hai na isliye”.
For all that I have put my son through I can only hope that he can forgive me. Every night while going to bed when I plant kisses on his bunny nose and wish him goodnight and say “I love you Nannu” and he replies “I love you Mummy” I hope he is able to forgive me for all that I am not being able to do for him as his mother and for all the hardships I have put him through at such a tender age.

I PROTEST MY LORD - AND SO I RESIGN

How do you end up becoming the person you are, whether the super duper guy or the wreck? What shapes your personality? Is it only genes, or additionally social conditioning or is there something more than just these?

I was 5 years old when I left the safety and warmth of my home for the school which was to be my home for the next 11 years.

This school taught my a lot. The school, the teachers made me strong and good, basically they shaped me up, the person I am today with all my plus and minuses. I learned that you always stand up for yourself, that honesty is the best policy, that hard work always pays. And something more : Never fear another human being and never take shit from anybody. Or maybe it was always in my blood, in my genes; it only got reinforced.

My school Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalaya Tafrogam is one of my strongest memories. If you have grown up from practically a baby to a young teenager in any place, I bet it will always hold your strongest memories. Life unraveled in all it’s beauty and horror in that school, and taught me many lessons along the way.

The first day of school Manda Didi was teaching all of us how to clean ourselves after going to the loo.

Arunachalis are all tribals and till some four to five decades back lived typical tribal lifestyles; villages with thatched bamboo houses, hunting and farming. The bamboo houses would be built atop stilts; stairs cut out in a wooden log leading up to the house. The area below the house used in many different ways; sometimes as a place to safe keep the collection of logs collected from the nearby forests to be used as firewood, sometimes as a fenced pen for your livestock, mostly pigs.

Most of the houses didn’t have separate outhouses, you either went to the jungle for it (you didn’t have to go too far, jungles are everywhere there), or one corner of the house was used as a toilet. The latter system too worked perfectly fine with the ingenuity of tribal wisdom. What better way to feed your livestock…

Your shit thudded down to the ground, where there’d be pigs squeaking to be the first to have a go at it. Sometimes as children we playfully aimed to have the shit land right on top one of the grunting pigs. Once you were done you either used water or leaves to wipe yourself clean. As a young child growing up I do not particularly remember my mother teaching me how to clean myself up after going to the toilet. Many times I would just wipe myself off with a piece of rag lying in one corner of the house, behind the door.

So that first day of school, Manda Didi lined us all up, around 25 small girls in the age group of 4-5 years in the bathroom. We were all asked to take off our panties, and turn by turn bend under the running tap as she taught us how to clean ourselves; shouting out loud above the din instructing everybody to use our left hands. When it was my turn I did everything right; she was impressed. Actually I had had the chance to observe all the other girls in front of me.

My lesson no 1: If you are not too sure of yourself, never venture to be the first to do things, you can learn by observing others before you and perform better.

Along with studies we learnt to sing, to pray, and to speak English, which we flaunted, especially so once we were grown up. VKV girls were among the few Arunachalis who could actually speak good English, not even students of VKV boys school could speak English as well. I remember when I came home during vacations my mother would take me along with her when she had to visit the Junior Engineers she worked with, just so that I spoke English and impressed them.

My mother worked as a contractor, building roads and buildings. She did not manage to build a highly successful career out of it; rather she struggled through the whole of it. A totally illiterate woman who does not even know to make notes of the daily expenses of the labourers employed by her; a single mother widowed at a very young age and men constantly trying to take advantage of her, whether people at work or otherwise.

But her stint as a contractor helped her bring up her four children, and provide for their education the best that she could. Every time her bill was cleared after a contract was complete, she would go to thank the engineers that she had worked with. The thanks most times consisted of a hen inside a shopping bag in addition to of course the understood percentage, the cut from the total bill. Sometimes this required a visit to the Junior Engineer and occasionally the Senior Engineer. And on those times that I accompanied her I only spoke in English; if somebody spoke to me in Hindi, I’d still reply in English. What did they think of my mother, she had a daughter who could speak English better than they could!

A few months into school, one day we were returning to the hostel after games. All the little girls were skipping merrily back to the hostel when suddenly somebody crashed into me from behind, throwing me to the ground. And sudden laughter erupted behind us. Someone shouted “Don’t let her go, push her to the ground”. Khandu was the one on top of me and Kesang was egging her on. I realized the attack was preplanned; it was not accidentally that she bumped into me. This infuriated me and I fought back. We both wrestled in the mud for some time before we called quits. Though none of the other girls came forward to help me, but I saw that after that episode they held me in some awe for standing up to these two girls.

Kesang and Khandu were two Lama girls in our class of around 25 young girls. Lamas are one of the tribes in Arunachal, although they number only a few hundreds. I remember the first day of school, both these girls with totally shaven heads had been crying out aloud and trying to run away after opening the gates of the hostel dorm. That was a far cry from what they became subsequently, big bosses in their own rights. Since they had the advantage of numbers in a scattered group of young children, and being older to most of us, they held their own.

That incident left a bad taste in my mouth and even as a young girl I realized that it was not a very nice thing to treat others badly or bully them just by virtue of being stronger than them. Maybe if it had been the other way, that I was with them and we were bullying some other girl I would have found it fun and laughed along with them. And then maybe I would have become a regular bully. But it was not to be. And this is how I learned another lesson about always standing up for yourself and batting for the underdogs.

In our school we called all the female teachers “Didi”. There was one Didi, Aparna Didi who was the terror of the school, especially among us the little ones. She would beat us all mercilessly for the pettiest mistakes we made. When girls did not admit to their mistakes she would use cunning to trap the girls. For example if girls did not bathe she would ask us, “Who of you did not have a bath?” Obviously everybody knew what was coming and nobody raised their hands. That infuriated her. She’d then say, “Ok, I know you are not telling the truth. Those of you who have not bathed be honest and raise your hands. You will not be punished. Those who do not raise your hands I know are all lying and they will be punished”. This would fool some of the girls who were a little stupid in their head, and they’d raise their hands. She would then go about the brisk business of slapping them, thad, thad, thad.

One day she slapped me really hard for not having my socks pulled up properly all the way to the ankle. For a few minutes after that crackling slap my ear was totally numbed. And that whole day there remained a low ringing sound in my ear. Many years later when I learnt that my left ear drum has a small hole; I remembered that day many years back when I was slapped so hard. I think I have Aparna Didi to thank for my punctured ear drum.

To this day I have not been able to fathom why, but I could feel that Aparna Didi really hated me. And after the initial few years, I started hating her back with equal intensity. When I was a little older and through with fearing her I would sometimes dare her.

She made it compulsory for us to maintain daily diaries and she would collect the diaries weekly once and go through them. One day after one of her lectures on good behavior that she gave us once in a while when she felt we were all faltering, I found myself standing behind her. Behind her back I poked out my tongue at her like the way small children often do. By now I simply detested her.

That day in my daily diary I proudly wrote about the incident. As usual at the end of the week we handed over our daily diaries to her to peruse through them. I waited to see what her reaction would be. I expected her to call me and give me another slap or at the least to scold me for it. She did neither.

I learnt an important lesson. If you stop taking bullshit and dare to dare the devil, many times the devil himself takes a step back because they are themselves taken by surprise.

There were some girls, the meeky cheeky ones who would run around the whole class if they were being punished by the teachers. One common form of punishment was being hit by a wooden ruler on your shins right below the knees where the skirts ended. So these meeky cheeky ones would cry out “No Didi”, “No Didi” and hop around the whole class on half bent legs trying to save their shins from the imminent hit of the scale; fear writ large on their faces.

Then there were a few of us who stood proud and still and endured the scale hits albeit with a slight flinch of the face with every snap of the scale. When I saw these girls scurrying around the class, scared to death of the beatings to follow, the indignity of it all made me set a rule for myself. I would never ever fear another human being. I would not give them the pleasure of seeing me scared and afraid.

In my 9th standard I took the biggest panga of my life and almost got thrown out of my school. I revolted against the Math teacher by going on a hunger strike. She had punished me for some silly misdemeanor of mine by making me permanently stand in her class. I stood through her class for three days, decided it was too humiliating and devised a strategy to rebel.

I declared to my classmates and friends that I was going on a hunger strike. I did not have lunch and dinner for the first day and skipped all the three meals the next day. The second night of my hunger strike I truly understood the meaning of “hunger pangs”. I lay in my bed but could not go to sleep because the gastric juices were playing havoc inside my stomach.

Though the hunger strike and everything was my own brilliant idea, I was mighty upset by now. Especially in that state of wanting-to-sleep-but-unable-to-cos-of-hunger, while the other forty girls in the dormitory slept and snored peacefully and the peace of the night was disturbed by the occasional fart or the occasional laughing-in-dream, all I wanted was to go home.

All through the night I kept waking up the hostel warden saying that I wanted to go home. In her drowsy state and wanting to get rid of the pest disturbing her peaceful sleep the warden promised she would talk to the Principal first thing in the morning. The next morning when she conveniently tried to forget her promise I pestered her till she agreed to talk to the Principal.

And so the next day I left for home. It was a great achievement considering that in my school you went home only once a year, for the annual 2 month vacation or if you fell gravely sick.

But I was naïve in thinking that I would go home and come back after a short and happy stay. When my mom learnt of the circumstances under which I had come home she stopped talking to me completely. While serving food, she would shove the plate towards me; she was that annoyed and pissed off with me. She thought that I had been thrown out of the school, while I looked at it like I was on a short hard earned stay at home.

She was right in thinking so. The teachers had decided that they would not take me back unless I apologized to the Math teacher.

The day I reported back to school I almost got thrown out again; I simply could not bring myself to say sorry to the teacher. I was ordered back once more to the hostel to pack all my stuff where I stood forlorn by my bedside, wondering if my mother would kill me this time around. After a lot of cajoling by some of the teachers and realization of how deep in shit I was, but above all the fear of my mom made me blurt out a teary and choked sorry.

My mother was right in saying that if it was not for the fact that I was one of their brightest students I would have definitely been booted out of the school. The lesson I learnt was an important one. For people to take you seriously and for you to be able to hold your own, it is important to be good in whatever you do. Many times you will otherwise not even get a second chance.

Among many other lessons I learnt from life, one was never to let others take the better of you. Be strong because the meek are trodden and crushed mercilessly beneath contemptuous feet.

And when there is injustice in the world always speak up and act up. If you do not speak up or act, no change will ever come about.

That is one reason I was on a slapping spree in my B’lore days. While walking down crowded streets, guys intentionally brushed against you, I hit back. While walking in a crowded mall, some rowdy tried to touch your bosom, you gave him tight slaps. That would definitely not make the world a better place, but it would at least make this particular mother fucker think twice before misbehaving with another girl.

There was an unfortunate incident that occurred in my workplace around a month back. The place where I had cosily and comfortably settled down in the past one year; the peace of the place was suddenly shattered. Some of my colleagues said that the people asked to leave were in the wrong; they had put the company at risk. Maybe they were indeed wrong, but in my opinion the reprisal was too swift too harsh. It is indeed very difficult for me to accept that there was no ulterior motive, no internal politicking involved.

And so after a lot of deliberation I finally decided to put in my papers. It cannot be helped, the person I am after so many years of being shaped by life's lessons.

The joker quietly bows and makes an exit from the stage.

A DAUGHTER AGAIN

It was a sad day for Radhi’s in-laws.

On 17th May Radhi gave birth to another daughter, her third in a row.

I had spoken to Radhi a couple of days back and enquired about her health, her delivery date etc. She had just then got back from a visit to the gynae. The gynae had advised her to have the delivery in a day or two; there was a danger that the water content in her uterus could go down dangerously and it could become fatal for the foetus.

On Sunday evening while bathing my son I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to enquire about Radhi’s delivery. My nephew Jolo was hovering nearby. I asked him to dial Radhi’s number. For a moment I wondered if anything untoward had occurred during childbirth due to which nobody informed me. Otherwise there was no reason for them to have kept me in the dark.


When her husband answered Jolo quickly handed the cell to me. Just seconds earlier he had said to me “Hum Uncle sa jyada baat karta hi nahin hai. Aap hi baat kijiye”.

“What’s the news of Radhi ? Has she delivered ?”

“Haan, phir se ladki hua hai…”, he sounded not unhappy or frustrated, but disdainful. In school his biology must have been weak; not knowing that if his sperm provided the vital Y chromosome he would have had a son. It was his sperm which had failed him, not his wife.

“Accha”, there was nothing much I could say to that tone of voice. So I asked to speak to Radhi. I enquired about her and her newborn daughter’s health. Then the million dollar question, “How are your in-laws taking it?”

“I don’t know. They haven’t said anything as such.” That was definitely bad news.

“Have you informed the people back home?”

“Yes, I informed Tuntun and asked her to inform Ma. Ma had called up later.” Tuntun is Radhi’s elder sister.

I was taken by surprise. Nobody from her family had called to inform me. I am very close to Radhi.

Later I called up her home and spoke to Ma. “Why didn’t you inform me about Radhi’s delivery”, I asked her incredulously.

“Ehhh, what’s to inform? It’s another girl. My daughter, she has a rotten fate. Three daughters in a row.”

“So what? It’s atleast a live and kicking baby. Be happy and grateful for that.”

She laughed then. “I know. I know. It’s just that she’s so unlucky. I don’t know what will become of her now. Her in-laws, they were already bickering about her. It will get worse now.”

Radhi is one and half years younger to me. She was with me in the residential school where I spent most of my childhood, though 2 classes my junior. She was always the fiery, gutsy type. She did well in extra curricular activities like extempore, debates, science seminars and dramatics. She once played the role of the Param Vir Chakra awardee “Major Dhan Singh Thapa”.

This drama had become a super-duper hit in the school. It was those days when the series “Param Vir Chakra” was being broadcast on DD1. Our school which was some kind of a Hindu Missionary School was very strict about television, rather the vice that is television. They believed strongly that television can only be a bad influence on children. In the 10 months that one school session lasted they showed us only about 9 or 10 movies. But if there were some good tele-series like Ramayan, Mahabharat being telecast, we were shown that whenever it was beamed once a week. To that list they had also added Param Vir Chakra.

The episode where they showed the story of the Indo-China war of 1962, in which Maj Dhan Singh Thapa won his medal had become a hot favourite in the school. For many days afterwards all the girls could be heard reciting “Hindi-Chini bai bai”. Considering that all the girls were chini looking, it was incredulous and rather funny.

When I came back to class after watching the Dhan Singh Thapa episode a thought suddenly struck me. There was a drama competition coming up in the school shortly. I decided to pen down the wonderful story that I had just witnessed. But who would play it out?

Who, but my long time ally Radhi… She was instantly bought over by the idea. I started penning the story. It was fresh in my memory and I could recollect the dialogues almost ratta.

We had to fight against huge odds to stage the drama. Biggest challenge of all was the costumes. From where would we manage uniforms for so many soldiers? And what about Maj Thapa’s costume? How would we manage the army uniform? The main protagonist atleast had to look convincing. (I was not introduced to my would-be Armyman husband then).

Someone rightly said, “Necessity is the mother of all invention”. When the day of the competition dawned, all the soldiers were dressed in their navy blue school sweater worn as pants which looked more like pajamas. Navy blue socks were pulled over this sweater-pant to almost knee length and they wore black leather shoes. The hostel dress which was a light green kameez was tucked in like a shirt. The school belt with Swami Vivekananda’s picture was drawn tight and proud over this attire like an army jawan’s belt.

Maj Thapa was dressed in an olive green shirt and pant and a black leather belt over it and looked handsome and dashing. The whole set was borrowed from the school dhobi Chhabilalji. He was the only one who owned anything which resembled an army uniform.

The Indian soldiers in the drama said “ek do ek, ek do ek” in a gruff proud kind of way when they marched. The Chinese soldiers said “ek do plet, ek do plet” in a thin whining voice. And of course “Hindi chini bai bai” kept renting the air all through the performance. The drama was an instant hit.

For a long time after that Radhi was known as Dhan Singh Thapa.

She followed in my footsteps wherever I went. After completing my 10th std from Vivekananda Kendra Vidyalaya Tafrogam I went to Chennai for my 11th and 12th. She joined the same school after me. She even came after me to Pune where I was doing my Engineering and she pursued a degree in law.

I had gained a notorious reputation in the school in Chennai; I had dared to challenge a girl who was a kind of ring leader in the school. Ring leader that she might be, she stole money from one of the north Indian girls. We were only 5 north Indian girls (we were 3 north-easterners and counted ourselves such) in the hostel full of Tamilians, Gultis and Mallus. I felt bound to stand for the cause of the north Indian camp.

We had a pitched duel, though only verbal. The ring leader denied stealing the money, but the victim was certain she had seen the girl hovering around her suitcase. After 4-5 hours when the arguments were leading nowhere we decided that the aged ayah who was believed to possess certain mystical powers would help find the culprit. It seems she knew some puja, would recite some mantras holding an egg and when the puja was over, the egg would attach itself to the ass of the thief and would not dislodge till she again recited some more powerful mantras.

Everybody agreed to it. But at the last minute the south Indian gang convinced the old lady against it. This had all the more reinforced the fact in my mind that the accused stood guilty. My otherwise good relation with my hostel mates soured after this.

A few days later one of the girls from the opposite gang intentionally crossed over my plate full of food in the mess; what with her flowing patta-pavade (south Indian lehenga-choli) and all; the hemlines of her lehenga scattering my food. In Chennai we ate food sitting on mats spread on the floor. I knew it was intentional and it made me angry. My food made inedible by the touch of her holy hemlines, it was all dumped into the waste bin. I waited outside for her.

When she came out I approached her and asked her why she had walked over my plate full of food like that. She answered arrogantly that she had done nothing of the sort. My anger which was bubbling so far started boiling now. I caught hold of her long ponytail and jerked it. Most probably I would have landed some slaps also but she shrieked out in so much pain for the ponytail tugging itself that I let go of her.

She of course complained to some seniors. They asked me about the incident. I told them about whatever had happened. My contention was that if she had not consciously crossed over my plate in that fashion she would have apologized for it. But because she did it wittingly she tried to act indifferent about it. They agreed that I had been wronged and let matters rest at that.

When this incident had occurred I was in the 11th std and the other party was one class my junior. The whole of my time in Chennai after that I was not on talking terms with this particular girl and the ring leader who was my classmate.

Radhi joined this school after me. She later told me that this particular girl on becoming good friends with Radhi had remarked to her that she, Radhi was quite unlike me. She had reasons to make that assumption.

Radhi is my younger sister.

It is unfortunate that even in this day and age girls have to go into a production spree to give birth to that sometimes elusive male heir. If the species called husband-kind would but once have to go through the pangs and the unimaginable pains of childbirth, I am sure they would throw up their hands and accept defeat after the very first time.

Sometimes I feel that my younger sister has been unlucky; more because she is stuck in the rut of a place like Arunachal Pradesh where people are still backward, their thinking included. But then I recollect that when my son was born, my husband had rejoiced more because he had been blessed with a son. We had had an argument over it later.

If we cross our hearts and think about this with all honesty, many of us will find that we are not untouched by this phenomenon, this craze for the “male heir”. Till that mindset does not change the rues of womankind shall continue unabated.

HOME TRUTHS : IN THE REAL SENSE OF DARE AND BARE

I wrote my first blog about 2 weeks back. I received some encouraging comments from a few readers. I was buoyed by my initial success (I do consider it a success !) and decided to trudge along.

But then a thought struck me. People write blogs for different reasons. Some people use it as a personal daily dairy. Some people just put down their thoughts and let it be. Some others share their views, their opinion about anything and everything under the sun and want people to read their views and then share their own opinion of the writer’s opinion.

I think I belong to the last category. I love to write but I’d also love it if people read what I wrote and said “wah, wah” about it. Criticism is also acceptable but it should fall in the realm of “constructive feedback”. I have been in the IT industry for so long, I have picked up some high-fi lingo. Grant me that much; that’s why the “constructive feedback”.

But however techno I might become what I have not been able to do till date is, in formal meetings or while giving a presentation, raise my hands and move my index and middle fingers to mimic a “double quote” while emphasizing on THE WORD of the meeting. Honestly I find that so "wannabe". No offense meant to all the managers or others I have worked with so far who have a fetish for it. Whenever someone does that in a meeting, I cannot help but quietly smile to myself. Once again, no offense anyone.

Anyways, coming back to the main story, I raked my brain about an interesting topic to write about, something eyeball grabbing, something that would be witty, smart, cool but more importantly be so ehthralling that it would leave people asking for more. Would my very memorable journey from Chicago to Arunachal which started with a bang, flying first class in a British Airways flight and ended with travelling in a bus whose fuel tank got detached midway in Digaru river; and we ended up completing the journey with a 2 litre pepsi bottle as a temporary fuel tank and the bus’s fuel pipe going from this pepsi bottle to the engine make interesting reading? It was one of my favourite for the top spot but I was not too convinced.

Then last week I learnt that one of my Didi from Vivekananda Kendra had lost the battle to breast cancer. For the selfless service she had rendered to the people of Arunachal, toiling the heat and dust and dirt and occasionally also mockery from some sections of the thankless Arunachali population, I felt that in her death Ranjana Didi warranted a heartfelt and grateful orbituary. But I discarded the though for the moment since reading about social service of selfless, beautiful-hearted people would not evoke the required interest in the public. I had to keep the popularity of my blog in mind, you see.

Luckily I remembered my wise husband’s words. He is quite wise, my husband. He says that if I ever plan to publish a book it, I do not need to look far for a story; I have a ready trump card with me. My ekka ka badshaah according to him is the story of my father. He feels that my father’s story would make interesting and riveting reading and any book on it would take me to the top of the bestsellers list. Maybe it would, maybe it would not. But of one thing I am sure, it would leave people with their eyeballs popping.

But more importantly, I have always wondered whether a person has the courage to open the closet and set the family skeletons tumbling in public; not to ridicule his or her family but as an exercise in honesty. There are closed family closets in every family. And mostly they remain such; in the family and closed. I am opening mine now; rather daring to.

I believe that a writer, whether a lowly blog writer or a famous book writer should always be honest and be unafraid to speak the truth. And in pursuit of that truth I open my family’s closet and bare some home truths. As a normal practice I do not speak about my family history to colleagues and regular acquaintances. It’s only my really close friends who know the long and short of it.

There runs a story in our family that one of my elder sisters when she got admitted to Lady Hardinge college was quite petrified about being ragged. She found a smart solution; she started telling her hostel mates the story of our family. Nobody bothered about ragging her anymore. They were too caught up in the story:

My father Tankakso Chai had 12 wives.

Some say the count is 13, but there’s confusion about it. He belonged to the Mishmi tribe of Arunachal. All his wives were also Mishmis. It is said his first wife was from the Adi tribe. And when he brought his second wife, a Mishmi woman home, his Adi wife left fearing that she would lose her pride of place and dominance among a herd of Mishmi wives. Or she must have left for love, heartbroken when he brought home another bride. If the story about the Adi wife is true, he had 13 wives in all. And he would have continued with his conquest for sure if age and ill-health hadn’t failed him.

My mother Jahilu was his youngest wife. Two of Jahilu’s older step-sisters were also married to him. My mother says that when my father brought her home as his wife, one of the sisters was very upset and mad and the second sister, the younger of the two very happy. The elder of the sisters really loved my father; she was like Queen Kaikeyi to King Dasharath. She feared for her position as also she was heartbroken that he married another of her sisters. The younger sister was the one with the brains; she was the one who schemed to get my mother marry my father. A man with 12 wives, cannot of course keep all his consorts happy and give each one the due love and attention a woman seeks. The younger sister had fallen in love with another man. And in exchange for her newfound love she traded her younger sister.

If anybody is wondering who is that fool of a father who gave away 3 of his daughters to the same man; here’s the secret. My father was a very rich and powerful man in those days. Some of the locals referred to him as the “King of Mishmis”, though he was no king in the literal sense. He was a very rich man who owned vast tracts of land, but more importantly a powerful man who was feared by his enemies and loved by his people.

For all his 12 wives he gave a dowry of 40 Mithuns each. A Mithun is a bison like animal found in the Himalayan region. It is the most important animal for the Mishmis. Mishmis like all of the other Arunachali tribes are steeped in traditional tribal practices. In Mishmi marriages the groom has to give Mithuns and pigs to the bride’s family. These traditional practices are followed even today. For a man to be able to give 40 Mithuns for each of his 12 wives; he undoubtedly had to be very rich. That’s a record no one has broken till date. When I was young and heard these stories of my father I vowed that whosoever was the lucky guy to marry me would have to give 40 Mithuns or more to claim my hand.

But life had other plans. My husband being from another religion would not understand our tribal traditions nor did I want to force it on him. I also did not want to let my mother down who had been expecting lots of Mithuns for all her daughters. She had already been let down once by my elder sister. So I arranged to give Mithuns for my own marriage. With my meager income I could afford only 6 Mithuns, of those 2 were small calves costing half the price. Still it burnt a hole of 80 K in my pocket. It’s a different matter that now after 3.5 years of our marriage and with a kid to boot, my husband claims that the money for the Mithun was a loan from me. In effect I am required to say that he gave the Mithuns to my family; the money I paid to be considered a loan from me.

Even as a young boy, Tankakso had a charismatic and towering personality. And he was extremely fearless. At the age of 16 or 17, he got romantically involved with his cousin sister. This was against the rules of Mishmi society and she was already betrothed. The girl’s family members beat him up and tied him down planning to hand him over to the groom’s family. They had all plans to kill him. A sympathetic relative informed him about their plans and freed him advising him to run away. In the darkness of night he fled the village. There was one road out of the village and the girl’s brothers were guarding it. The only other escape route was the gushing Lohit river flowing below at a depth of 500 meters or more. He took the plunge.

Once the village folks learnt of his escape, they got hopping mad and looked for him everywhere. Word was sent out to the neighbouring villages and there was a lookout notice posted for him all over the place. He spent those days hidden in a rock in the river. It is said that someone resembling Lord Shiva appeared to him in a vision and led him to the big rock where he could hide and wait out till the girl’s relatives tired of searching for him. My father owed his life to this God. Many years later he repaid his debt by setting up the first temple in our hometown, the Shiva Mandir.

He settled down in Tezu; for his brave, clever and charismatic ways and his towering personality he was appointed the Political Assistant to the Deputy Commissioner of Tezu. It was a very important position in a small town. Being one of the first settlers in Tezu he cultivated large tracts of land and became owner of half of the land in and around the town. He was the owner of most of the shops in this small town. And the man he was, always an eye for pretty ladies, he started setting up his harem. With the wealth he had accumulated and his reputation nobody dared refuse him.

And people simply started referring to him as the King of Mishmis.

My father was nearing 80 years when he passed away in 1987. My mother was around 35 years old then. The whole town gathered to bid a tearful adieu to their king.

Tankakso Chai, fondly called "Mishmi Raja" a man who had had no formal education at all in his life, who rose to the levels he did based solely on his personal merit and grit and determination; none of whose many children even with all their education measure up to him, even halfway.

I Dreamed a Dream

Today I watched the video of Susan Boyle singing “I dreamed a dream” in Britain’s Got Talent. It left me teary eyed but more importantly it awakened a dormant thought that I had suppressed for so long.

That once upon a time I too had dreamed a dream…

I had dreamed a dream that one day I would become a writer…

Since the time I could start reading, books were always my companion. Growing up in a hostel, reading was one of the best ways to spend your time wisely and creatively and more importantly keeping away from mischiefs listed in the schoolbook; like stealing oranges from the orange orchard or going into the nearby forests to eat the junglee fruits. You were bound to get caught and you were bound to be punished, but we still did it. That is the thing about “garam khoon” of youth, you do what you do knowing it is not the right thing, just because you have to do it.

But if I was reading any book, I would stay away from all mischief and be absorbed in it for the whole day. And the day after, because sometimes it would take my young mind a full day to absorb and grasp the meaning of what I had just read. There were many times I would read books beyond my age just to prove to my classmates that I was one level ahead of them. I was probably in the 5th standard and I was reading books like “The Sheriff of Bombay”.

If anybody is wondering why the hell this particular book, the simple reason is : it was available in our school library. I remember clearly that my not-yet-fully-developed brain and vocabulary could not comprehend half the contents of the book about the red light area, prostitues etc. But the indomitable spirit had dogged along since the young girl wanted to triumph over the book.

There were many times, when going to the dormitory’s restroom you would suddenly hear a loud crackling laughter from one of the toilets, which would make you jump. After a moment it would sink in that someone inside the loo is reading a book and has come across a really hilarious line. If from the laughter you recognized the girl behind the closed doors; you’d shout out her name and tell her she’s scaring people outside. On many occasions I was one of them on the other side; letting all those filthy germs enter my mouth at that moment when I lost control and let out a guffaw.

As we grew older we became bolder and novels started appearing during regular classes. History teacher is teaching history; history book is open in front of you; but between the pages of your history book is tucked in a small Mills-n-Boons novel. Sir is teaching about Akbar and his conquests and you are carried away by the conquest of your tall, dark and handsome protagonist. If you are the kickass smart type you also stack up all possible books and notebooks in front of you so that the oh-so-romantic novel between your oh-so-boring history book is not at all visible from the teacher’s desk.

But you are not as kickass smart as you think you are. After a while it dawns upon you that the teacher has stopped bako-ing and the class seems to be unnaturally silent. You realize that the inevitable has happened. The wily teacher has sneaked up from behind you and caught you redhanded. You were right in thinking that you are kickass smart; your ass will be kicked alright, you smart fool. If you are smiling away to yourself sweetly because the hero has just planted a kiss on the heroine while in the history class they are discussing the gory death of soldiers in the the war of XYZ, the teacher is bound to notice. You are a fool alright, and you deserve to have your ass kicked.

Since those beautiful, youthful days I dreamed a dream; that one day I too would become a famous writer.

Leave alone the famous, I am nowhere near being a writer. The only writing I have done in the past few years is all the love letters I sent to my beau when he was posted away in no-man’s land Kashmir; who subsequently became my husband. The love letters dried up since. I don’t know how, but marriage does that to even the most romantic and die hard love stories.

The other writing I can attribute to myself is the realms of technical documents I have prepared in all these years of my software engineering life. System Requirement document, High Level Design document and then a Low Level Design document. System Architecture and System Interface documents can also be peppered in to this list from time to time. Not to forget the most interesting of all, the baap of all - Test Plan documents. These technical documents really hone and light up your writing skills like nothing else. Not just your writing skills they even hone your verbal skills. Many of the common English words have become alien to me; I say “My son is having problems interfacing with other kids in his school” when I meant “My son is having problems interacting with other kids in his school”.

I grew up, took up a job. The job required me to work my butt off, 14 hours a day, mostly 6 days a week; though the official work hours were 9 hours a day, 5 days a week. My reading became infrequent, was relegated mostly to my twice a year train journey home on vacations. Once I started earning enough to be able to afford a plane ticket even that was lost.

Then I got married and subsequently was blessed with a child. It is indeed a blessing to have a child. God bless that learned man who coined this term “Blessed with a child”. Losing all sense of time and losing all your sleep and sanity; becoming a cranky old lady; changing nappies day in and day out; cleaning the stinking potty of your child is indeed the ultimate blessing.

With this new development in my life there was no time at all left for my first love, reading. Writing ! What writing ??? Did anybody talk about writing? I don’t think I get what you are talking about… writing ?? huh…

This is what my life became. My childhood dream had faded away…

I do not feel too sorry for myself though. I am just one among the billions of disillusioned people inhabiting this earth who did not dare enough. Susan Boyle did.

But there was once a time when I too had dreamed a dream.

Note : Youtube video of Susan Boyle singing "I dreamed a dream"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnmbJzH93NU