EACH ONE WORTHY OF MY BEST

 Two books I’ve read recently, The Sympathizer by a Vietnamese author, and another about a Latvian protagonist, have led me to think about our cultural stories and how they help shape our identities—and also our personalities. 

More specifically, the amount of time I’ve invested in my mum’s life stories—listening and recording them—have made me see her as a deep, complex and unique person. And I love her as I didn’t before. This has been rewarding, but also humbling. Because isn’t it what we all are? My instinct, which is to invest similarly in all the people I care about feels overwhelming because it’s impossible to do. What’s doable is to accept and treat people as unique individuals who are worthy of respect and love.

What a roundabout way to reach a truth.

July 13 2024

AN INHERITANCE OF TRAUMA

 Reflections on India’s Independence 

Today one hears little about the national traumas experienced by India and Pakistan at the time they gained independence 75 years ago—a vast wounding of the psyche now buried deep within us. Few who experienced that historical event are alive today, and yet the stories and images will live on.

There is a feeling of awe and pride when I recall that my dad was present among the throng of revelers that greeted the first dawn of freedom. He was there when the crowd hushed to hear the words of India’s first prime minister spoken from the ramparts of Delhi’s Red Fort. Dad was 22 and I imagine his heart must have swelled with hope for the future.

Then came the communal unrest and violence. One thousand miles away in the city of Calcutta, my dad’s aunt, Hema Lata, or Bara Ma as she was affectionately called, showed up at the train station with a group of volunteers everyday to meet trains arriving from Pakistan to assist the wounded and displaced passengers. Many among them who were dead. Riots raged in that city for five days. There were 2000 casualties and thousands more injured in Calcutta alone.

One of dad’s uncles decided to remain in Lahore with his family and remained permanently separated from the larger family because of political tensions and travel restrictions between the new countries.

A New York Times photo article revived these mixed feelings that I will forever associate with India’s had earned independence.

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/14/world/asia/india-partition-history-photos.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share
https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/14/world/asia/india-partition-history-photos.html?referringSource=articleShare

NOW THIS

I remember that first time I noticed the creases around my mouth. I must have been in my late twenties or thirties. Bewildered I stared into the mirror. They seemed to have sprung overnight. I smiled. I relaxed my face. I smiled more widely then relaxed my face again. They didn’t go away. Where had they come from? 

Now I know they’re signs of aging and are called laugh lines or nasolabial folds.

Fast forward a decade plus years to the day my stomach feels unnaturally swollen. I am convinced I have a tumor. Alarmed, I cautiously manipulate my abdomen and determine to consult the family physicians about it. 

No reason to panic I am assured. It was only middle-age spread. Embarrassed, I bought myself a hula hoop that very day promising myself that I would rather die than allow myself to thicken at the waist.

Recently while playing the Spelling Bee game, I was annoyed that the common word KINE was not on the list, but DINK was. I didn’t even know DINK was a word. I had been typing in all sorts of letter combinations, as I sometimes do, to uncover words I might otherwise miss. 

Nonplussed, I turn to my husband whose vocabulary is greater than mine, “What does DINK mean?”

“Never heard the word. I’ll look it up.”

I wait.

He laughs scandalously, “Turns out we know quite a few ‘dinks.’ Some even in our family.”

Before emailing the game authorities to point out they’ve missed a word again, I look up the word KINE.

Guess what?

KINE - noun, ARCHAIC.

THE GUN PROBLEM

 Once bitten, twice shy.

I get it—why you won’t react to my posts about guns, or other politicized subjects. Perhaps I’ve bit, but I promise I’ve been bitten more often, and I bet you have been too—right here on social media by people who delight in criticism because they assume to know our every thought and motive. I, on the other hand, can tell when someone is rattling off talking points and not speaking from their heart, or liver.

While we wait and cast our bets on any gun legislation getting passed soon, (I’ll confess I’m not hopeful) the thought of enduring another mass shooting, or listening to desperate parents talk about moving to a safer country, wakes me up at 3 am with the desire to dialogue with those who’d rather bite me.

Although, my personal preference is to rid the world of every firearm—real or fake, I realize there are not many who will walk or fast with me on this. So I suppose some compromise is necessary—that way a few can live and write about it.

I believe in the Second Amendment, but not for people who were responsible for tragedies in Columbine, West Nickel Mines, Sandy Hook, Marjorie Stoneman Douglas, or Robb Elementary School.

I believe in your right to own firearms responsibly for hunting and self-defense, but not for mowing down or massacring innocent civilians.

I believe in the constitutional rights of the more than 311,000 students who have experienced gun violence since Columbine to not have to live in fear.

I believe our children should come home from school alive

—Inspired by “There Has to Be a Tipping Point on Guns, Right?” (NY Times, June 6, 2022)

DIGNITY

“I think the Irish most often use the world ‘dignity’ of any other group of people,” Biden said. “I think it’s because when you’ve been deprived of dignity you put a high, high premium on it.” 

I've been thinking more about this recently. The fact that my experiences makes me extra sensitive and predicts my reaction to certain stimuli. I guess like most things, this is neither good nor bad, and I believe awareness is key. 

THE SEVENTY SENTENCE

While reading a book for our book club, A Place For Us by Fatima Farheen Mizra, I came across a sentence that shouted out to me. The sentence read thus, “Make seventy excuses before judging someone.”

I pondered this for a while, actually I’ve oft thought about it in the last few weeks--reflecting that while making excuses for myself might be habitual, I didn’t apply it to the same extent to others.

If I take the broader meaning of the word “excuse” to also mean, reason, justification, explanation or even apology, I end up with something more commonly heard which is “to give someone the benefit of the doubt.”

When I first read the sentence, what had come to my mind immediately was the Biblical reference of forgiving someone seventy times seven. Forgiveness and being slow to judge are two different things to me. The first occurs after the fact of an act that hurt or betrayed, the second, before the feelings of hurt or betrayal are played out.

So perhaps making 70 excuses first for someone’s behavior might save me from undue suffering, and from having to forgive later.

This morning I looked and found the source for the Muslim adage which, by the way, is not attributed to the prophet but to another early Muslim philosopher, “If a friend among your friends errs, make seventy excuses for her. If your hearts are unable to do this, then know that the shortcoming is in your own selves.”

Making seventy excuses before judging someone is not a new concept for me and not necessarily a religious one but a prudent one of extending goodwill and compassion to my fellow humans. However, it took the unusual phrasing of words to force me to look at the message anew and to consider the merits of exercising it.

THURSDAY MORNING IN HOSUR

 4/27/22

In the early morning darkness, I hear the birds first and then the Imam’s call to prayer. Not very much later the sacred gives way to the mundane and crass—traffic roaring in the distance, the Hindu temple’s songs on loud speakers. 

Dawn breaks quickly, darkness making way for daylight in a matter of moments, and the lightness of the morning air calls me outside where Scamp is ready to play. Mum, after her devotions, will join us outside sweeping up the few leaves that have fallen on the path during the night. It’s her exercise she says. This is the magic of Hosur mornings.

Being with mum is like being in another world and when I reside here, all other worlds fade. It engages in a way that takes over everything else.  It’s the reason, I might not write, or call or remember how much I love you.

Mum’s my focus. We’ve done a couple jigsaw puzzles, played numerous Boggle games, taken our meals, while looking after small housekeeping chores. We laugh and joke and act “jalep”, and all the while, mum keeps up a steady flow of family stories, and anecdotes from her life. When she mentions something I don’t recall hearing before, I reach for my iPad to jot down a few words that I hope to flesh out later. 

Now more often than before, she mixes and matches events and dates that I know don’t go together. She’ll mention Aunty Ivy and her first GC in the same sentence, and Maggie in a story decades before she was a part of our family. And I’m thankful that I paid attention earlier and know most of the stories so well, that I know when she misstates facts, but also because when she falters for a name or place, and pauses with confusion on her face, that I can supply them to her, and watch her eyes light up at making the connection again.

Yesterday, mum tutored me in knitting baby booties. Having knitted dozens of pairs in her lifetime, she knows the pattern by memory and I have this unexplained desire to produce them as prolifically and effortlessly as she once did.

My stays are short, and my visits few and far apart, but as much as is in my control, I will find forever in each moment.

DEAR AUNTIES

 5/3/22

Saying goodbye to aging parents is difficult, and it seems like I’ve had to do this so many times already. My flight departs from Bangalore in exactly 12 hours—4:40 AM on Thursday.

Thankfully, mum is well and strong. She has a routine and believes in it—and this brings more comfort than you can imagine, because I know she will keep doing it for as long as she can. I can make a list of the things that she doesn’t do as well anymore, but that list is minuscule compared to the things that she continues to do well.

We are actively looking for the right person to be around her. The search can be disheartening but I hope this means the right person will come along at the right time.

Getting to know mum through her stories I’ve collected the last few years, has been a wonderful blessing for me. Understanding her through her history has forever softened my heart towards her, and I have forgiven her for the times I felt she was inadequate as a parent. 

She is not perfect. She has many complaints about some things, relishes her identity as a self-sacrificing person, and stubbornly insists her ways are the best. These imperfections are nothing and only serve to reinforce the fact that she is human and vulnerable, and like each of us is worthy of love and dignity. Looked at from this perspective, mum is nothing less than an amazing and precious 93 year old, who loves and gives generously in ways that are her own.

I hurt at the pain of separation that she will feel more acutely than I will . . . but she is in a safe comfortable place, and cared for thoughtfully by Gordon.

Your letters to her in the days immediately following my departure will bring her much joy … and help pass the hours as she transitions to her normal routine.

WHY DOTH THOU READ

 “I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? …we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.”

- Franz Kafka

PARENTS

 

My heart squeezes tightly almost making me ill when I look at this picture of my parents. It's not a flattering image of them. Dad, then in his 90s had grown slow, his edema swollen slippered feet shuffled from bed to desk to dining table. His heart balking at the slightest exertion; blood flowing like thick molasses so he was always cold, so on warm days he'd sit outside and soak up the warmth. Mum, still strong but often weary.

Story Material

I remember when I was in Toronto I would give money to every panhandler, busker and street bum. I would allow my windshield to be wiped at red lights and smile and tip them well. I once paid a young man asking for a smoke $10 to collect cigarette butts for me for an art project I had in mind. 

I befriended a number of regular buskers on metro stations to and from work. Benny was from Mexico and always wore a hat. He sang Spanish songs and accompanied himself on a guitar. Oh, he made me so homesick for New Mexico. Mel was from Nova Scotia and wrote his own songs. Sam usually played late. I loved the jazz melodies he played on his saxophone. He said he had played for some of the greats in New Orleans back in the day. I bought their CDs. Brian was a great crooner. His voice would greet us as we came up the escalator from the bottom platform at the Sherbourne Station where I got off. I treated him to lunch one day. Another time we went to the Ex together. And once he cooked dinner for me in his very modest apartment. I ate the potatoes as the other dish was non-veg. 

I was lonely and restless and found that individuals on the outskirts of society were least likely to be judgmental and accepted me for who I was at that moment in time.

The vision of Raphael would fill my eyes and I hoped someone somewhere was kind and generous to him as he roamed and wandered the streets of whatever town he was in for I never knew from day to day or from week to week where he was or where he rested his head.

When I joined him two years later, he was sleeping on the floor in an apartment he was renting. His night stand was made of FedEx boxes.

Now we live a normal life. We have furniture and linen in the closet. Dishes for everyday and for special occasions, but there is nothing to write about.

Leave Me to Me

In a New York Times opinion piece by David Brooks, “Biden said that his dad once showed him an image of the comic strip Viking, Hagar the Horrible, getting hammered by life and screaming out, “Why Me?!” God answers, “Why Not?”

I can smile at this scenario today but there were times when I have absolutely cried out in desperation, "Why me?" There was never any answer, just silence, which is the same as "Why not?" I’ve discovered that life's trials are never personal and we suffer them indiscriminately. There is no fairness, no balance, no bias in our favor. The trick then to overcoming them is my own response, my attitude, my perspective. And this is exactly how it should be. I would want no one else to be in charge of my fate -- only myself. Leave me to me.

RELIGION AND DIVORCE

For many years I was deeply wounded that my parents didn’t give me any emotional support when I decided to leave my first husband. At a time when I needed desperately to be affirmed for who I was--an adult woman who was best situated to make decisions for myself, dad appeared patronizing in his treatment of me, believing I had made a mistake in leaving my marriage because they were for reasons other than the ones approved by the Church. 

“He’s not chasing other women, not beating you,” dad said implying that other reasons should be worked out.

I felt like a child being reprimanded for making a bad decision, when in fact, I had been married for 22 years, had held various responsible positions in Church employment, and had raised two children.

On another occasion dad bemoaned the fact that all his sisters’ children, who were not even Christians, had stable marriages while two of his children’s marriages had failed. It seemed to me he though it a poor reflection on his public image.

He did not approve of my relationship with my second husband to be. In an email to me he asserted that our relationship was guaranteed to be a failure because it was not founded on Jesus and Christian principles.

Perhaps feeling conflicted Mum showed two different sides. She was united with dad in disapproving of my decision; however, she once repeated to me in a conspiratorial way a remark made to her by one of my girlfriends who was happy for me, “Lorna is so lucky.” I felt that mum was trying to convey at some level that she sympathized with me. However, in 20 years she has not once tried to have a conversation with me about it.

My oldest brother was openly supportive of me, but he had already been through a divorce and had left the church. I didn’t feel any judgment from my other two brothers, they were supportive but mostly silent. My sister was straightforward in expressing her disapproval. As Christmas approached, she regretted that she could not send a card addressed to my partner and me as we were cohabiting. Ironically, that same Christmas we received a card from mum addressed to both Raphael and me.

Another time, my sister said as long as my partner and I were not married, she could not visit us as that would indicate she condoned our behavior while clearly she did not. She likened it to viewing an object she knew was stolen—that it would somehow implicate her.

Realizing that it was an error to expect my parents (and others) to behave in a way I wished or expected, allowed me to stop pining for the affirmation I wanted, to love and accept them on their own terms, and to heal from the hurt of rejection. I have a better understanding of why some could not accept my decisions, perhaps believing that supporting me might betray their convictions. In the same way that I wish to be true to myself, each one must also have that right.

I have concluded that religion was the reason that prevented some of my family from being loving and supportive of me. That some Christians (rightly or wrongly) confuse "accepting" with "condoning;” that the admonishment to “call sin by its right name” does not serve Christians well as it gives a reason to be judgmental and creates obstacles to accepting and loving someone else whose lifestyle does not match their own.

The SDA Church’s position on divorce is archaic and demonstrates neither understanding nor compassion--and which is my primary reason for leaving the Church. It denies individuals the right to seek relationships that are meaningful and loving.

The choices I made for myself had a ripple effect which touched other lives and I regret the hurt it caused. And while the events I write about are in the past, I look to the day when we will be able to love each other freely—without judgment, without feeling guilty that we might be condoning another’s choice or lifestyle, and without fear we might be implicated by association. 

I share my experience: wishing it helps someone else in the family; believing that talking about things builds deeper understanding and closer bonds; and hoping that were someone else to go through a failed marriage, family will be the first to embrace and uphold that individual.

The Joke's on Me - Dream

Joy and I are lying next to each other in what appears to be two long rows of a field bed. Perhaps it’s just a vast hall with people sleeping on the floor. He and I have staked out spots next to each other intentionally hoping to get a few cheap thrills surreptitiously. Outside it is night and the room is darkened. Margaret B lies on the other side of him. I know Joy’s wife, Lulu, is also sleeping somewhere in the hall but in a spot unknown to me.

The next day it is Joy’s day as he is demonstrating how to make a dessert tart. The biggest tart pan I have ever seen is on the floor. It must be 10-12 feet in diameter and reminds me of the biggest enchilada festival Raphael and I attended once in Las Cruces. Helpers are putting in the layer of crust into the pan. There are ample folds hanging over the edge that looks like frills on a dress cut on the bias. It is beautiful and impressive.

However, when we sit down to eat at a long table such as the victorious feast of the saints in heaven as illustrated by Harry Anderson in the Children’s Bible Story by Arthur Maxwell, a set we had at home as children, the dish being served is not a tart but matzo ball soup. I am somewhat surprised and a little disappointed but before I even have a chance to sample it, I can hear exclamations of approval from others around me. With my spoon I cut into the good sized ball in my bowl and find it is not dense but light and airy. I turn to Joy and enquire, “Did you use leavening?” His response is in the affirmative and I’m not impressed because any home cook can get it light by using leavening. It is delicious though, I admit.

Later in the day, Joy and I have a quiet moment together and he says in a confidential voice, “What shall we do about last night?” He probably noticed the puzzled look on my face and continues, “Maggie, knows. She noticed us bump into each other during the night too many times to be ‘accidental.’” I frown at this unhappy turn of events. I don’t want Lulu to be hurt by our careless flirtation which really means nothing to either of us.

The next evening I intend to try to get Joy off the hook by taking a walk with Manoj and Mohan but really it’s Paul, Mohan’s younger brother. I link my arm through Paul’s nonchalantly so the world can see I don’t mean any harm by my friendliness, I’m just bindaas. But as the three of us walk together on the grounds of the conference in the darkening evening, Paul puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes gently in a sexual way. This act definitely catches me off guard though I’m far from being repulsed and smile to myself as I realize the joke’s on me.

DREAMSCAPE

Scene 1
I’m walking towards public bathrooms when I pass a woman who has the appearance of an Indian laborer. She hands me a key to a locked outhouse which is a much cleaner toilet. I am just about to squat to take a pee when there is banging on the door and a male voice calling for Vasanthi. I assume it was the name of the woman who gave me the key.

I open the door slightly to reveal I am not Vasanthi inside but who nevertheless was using the toilet legitimately as I was given the key. The man looked passed me at a couple bare open shelves mounted below the roof near the corner and said a snake had been seen there recently and he had come to check.

Scene 2
Raphael and I are out walking when we realize it’s going to rain. We happen to be passing a squat rectangular structure that looks like a one room shack and with a quick glance at each other that confirms we have the same thought, we turn into the dwelling that’s situated just off the path. No sooner had we entered then we hear the deluge pouring out from the sky. We had found shelter in the nick of time.

The darkened room is bare but not empty. I first see one person rolled up in a blanket on the floor in the corner opposite the door and then realize there’s another person sleeping to the side of the door we had just opened. They acknowledge our arrival but nothing else. We sit down on our haunches on the dirt floor to wait out the storm.

Scene 3
The path we’re traveling on turns muddy and soon a raging body of water is flowing across the path in front of us. Remnants of a building that looks like it had either been bombed, or on which an earthquake had done a number, emerge above the water with rebar and concrete pillars that lend handholds as we enter and prepare to cross. I am ahead and with my mind made up, I push my bicycle into the turbulence and forge ahead. But in a split second I realize the water is too deep and  quickly make a u-turn shaking my head indicating the impossibility of crossing.

On the dry path again beside the angry water, a man in uniform who might be a policeman stands with open notepad and pen and by the look on his face we intuit that entering the water area was illegal. We, of course, were unaware of our trespassing. When the officer asks for my address that is specifically a P. O. address, I hold up a document so he can see the contents, and explain that I have only a street address, he resigns to letting us go free.

CHILDHOOD REVISITED

Chatted with Ken last night. It seems like we have the same conversation every time, but it’s always crazy fun.

He loves to tell me about my dad and how much he admires him. At one time, he would visit Dad weekly at the Division office in Salisbury Park just to chat. Dad would question him about some rumor circulating about Ken's questioning some particular doctrine and they would laugh it off together. Another time near the GC office in Maryland he runs into my dad and Pr. Hetke. Hetke, he claims, didn't acknowledge him, but dad stopped to chat and congratulated him. He had heard Ken had become a father. 

Another subject is Ken's great talents and intelligence. He talks at length about the book he's published. How he wrote it in a few weeks. What a great piece of writing it is. Have I read it yet? (I have.) He's writing another book--far from conventional, in fact, very weird, but he's concerned his children may read it and that keeps him from writing freely. 

We talk about our kids and parenting. He's been a good father. We talk about our parents and how our families' lives have been interwoven. How much more we have in common that we acknowledge.

He boasts his singing voice has improved and his range is now quite impressive. He sings Freddie Mercury covers and promises to sing for me next time I visit.

Our conversation strays to old friends and school mates. How we must get together for a friends' reunion while we are still healthy.

He never fails to tell me that I am the first girl he's kissed, the only girl he's ever been in love with. 

He: Come here, Lorna. Come, be with me. We were meant to be together.

Me: Ken, are you drunk?

He: Yes.

We hang up laughing.

PARENTING

I’ve always felt that becoming a mother was the best thing that happened to me in my life. Why? I didn’t know until this morning while riding my bicycle.

Pedaling down Ridgecrest I realize that all my physical and mental energy found their focus on these two little babies that depended on me for everything. It brought me and kept me in the moment. And the first moment led to the second moment and the third, the fourth, until In the blink of an eye, years had gone by.

Gone was the anxious restlessness which dominates a large part of my nature.

[“And it was as if she had never been.” —listening to Romain Rabot’s son in concert on Flat Pack Music streaming live now on Facebook. He is an excellent bass soloist.]

My first thought was that I must share this important discovery with Preeti. Perhaps becoming a mother is her destiny. She just doesn’t know it.

If being a parent brought the greatest joys, it also brought the greatest anguish.

But now I will return to the day, and to the moments of restlessness and mental wanderings.

GLOOM

I've been feeling glum and listless today. I've gardened, cooked and cleaned and even did a little yoga -- but mostly without any joy.

I have so many friends when I'm upbeat, but so lonely when I'm in this mood. I yearn to talk to someone only to give me something to do because I have no interest in any routine activity. I dialed up Preeti twice but she didn't answer. I called Daphne but after a few minutes she had to go.

I did get Mum on Skype after ages. But she was distracted and worried about the cat saying if she didn't open the door and put food out, the cat would sulk and disappear for a long time.

I started watching a Netflix movie with Raphael, but after I was sort of getting into it, he ended it as it wasn't to his liking. I have this thing about ending anything halfway. Even if it's a movie I don't care for, I will usually watch it to the end though there are definite exceptions.I was in no mood to test out another movie only to have it prematurely ended for the second time in the same evening, so I walked out and decided to do a little work.

I did most of the work on an invoice for our Specialty Crops grant.

It's half past nine and I'm waiting to hear from Catherine so I can arrange a ride back home for her. She wasn't feeling too good and needed a ride to the hospital. We got her a Lyft ride as I wasn't going to risk going to the hospital.

I felt like listening to something different so I found Mehdi Hassan listed on one of Uncle Justin's FB posts. Some beautiful old ghazals. I don't understand most of what he's singing. A word her and there.

I think I'll take a walk on the street outside. Perhaps it's cooled down.

Later.
No, it hadn’t really cooled down. It was lovely though to be outside in the open with absolutely no one else in sight.

And Catherine finally was released with a diagnosis of UTI. I could rest after I confirmed she connected with her Lyft driver - which chanced to be a woman which must have helped set her at ease.

STREET DANCING DURING COVID

I called the neighbors to an impromptu party yesterday. At 9 pm, you could tell who the real party animals were.

Monica and Todd - brought out the music box and sparklers.
Raphael and I  arrived with fake fireflies in a jar.
Thirty minutes later Merna returned from her 70th birthday party and joined us.
Henrietta and Steve arrived with Sam --mostly for a social chat.
The women were the serious dancers.
Yeah. Love our neighbors . . . and dancing.

We say goodnight and promise to do it more regularly.

KHARKONGOR ANCESTRY

My Khasi heritage can be traced 17 generations all the way to the first clan mother. As in a matrilineal culture, all descending individuals are mothers.

Ka Mohkynhong / Kharkongor Clan Mother (Circa 1500) Ka Iew Kharkongor Ka Lah Kharkongor Ka Sohmian Kharkongor Ka San Kharkongor Ka Jat Kharkongor Ka Shngain Kharkongor Ka Laitbuh Kharkongor Ka Lir Kharkongor Ka Ron Kharkongor Ka Shkiah Kharkongor Ka Shira Kharkongor Ka Shylluid Kharkongor Ka Queensilies Kharkongor Wallang Ka Birol K Wallang Christo Ka Lorna K Christo Samraj Ka Preeti K Samraj