Ganapati Bappa Morya...

Growing up, festivals didn't mean to me what they meant to my mother. 

I've always dragged my legs when it comes to rituals; I've always dreaded these days. 

They remind me of itchy, shimmery clothing, uncomfortable jewelry, hours of sitting cross legged while my foot falls asleep over and over again and my tummy rumbles from fasting that feels like starvation, rude pundits, verses in languages that are not meant to be understood but simply recited, unaccomodating traditions and rigid compulsions that could not be altered according to your interests and wishes. 

So naturally this year too, just like the last, I didn't participate in the mad fight to handover my duties to someone else, leave the hospital and go home to spend Ganesh Chaturthi with my family. Forgoing the holiday, I stayed at the hospital for a regular day at work.

We had a small Ganesh pooja here at the hospital. For the first time, it made me cherish the memories of my childhood festivals, the traditions that I grew up following, and more than anything, they made me miss my mom and being able to witness how much this day means to her. 

My mom... She always thinks of festivals with anticipation, a sense of duty to fulfill, responsibility to be carried out, with ablutions to be finished early in the morning. The most charming attire and ornaments are to be worn, the house adorned by fragrant leaves and flowers all around, making clear to any by-passer that devotional merriment is in the air, good food to be painstakingly made even if takes until well into the day, willingly fasting until it's all served to God; the entire family is to be uniformly devoted to this purpose, happy to be home from work or school and devotedly doing their own part in the customary celebrations. 

Prayer is a sign of togetherness in a loving, God-fearing (God-loving is the term we prefer at home) family like our own. The day spent together in the name God is the best sort of family time to my mom. 

I miss home. 

A Year.

It's a year since I've started asking into what I've gotten myself. 

I've repeated it over and over, yet haven't gotten used to the idea yet, that I'm a changed person now. Stoic and practical, more devoid of sympathy than for which I'd initially aimed, I no longer give myself lenience to provide senseless excuses or false promises which used to satisfy me in the past. 

I've turned neither more efficient, nor more happy. I am simply blank book with pages I've already filled with nothing that I have the patience to articulate anymore. The pages are full, but you can't see what's there; let's leave it at that. 

There may never be enough time to mourn my lost flair for writing out my troubles. 

One year of pregnant women grunting, groaning, gasping, writhing and even kicking. Everyone in the labour room screams-- the in-charge medical officers at the residents, the seniors at the juniors, the juniors at the nurses, the nurses at the servants, the servants at the patients and the patients just into the air out of sheer pain-- bloodcurdling screams that would make your heart sink, their terror put to silence with the steadiness of our tired, dull, bored eyes. 

Sometimes it feels like it's all worth it, just to live out the ultimate satisfaction reserved only for ObGyns-- that which I get while tying a patient's tubes; the thrill of pulling a second time, tighter, the feel of the hollow sealing shut under my fingers, with a complacent little smile concealed behind my mask every time. 

The to-be Mommies

Being a Gynaecologist in these trying times isn't as hard as say, maybe a physician or any other speciality posted in covid duty; but it isn't easy either. Pregnancy in a covid positive patient is morally ambiguous in my mind; they must be attended to even if they're asymptomatic from the disease, and yet pregnancy and childbirth is a choice. How do I prevent myself from being judgemental of those who conceive in times like these? 

Why do I put mine and my loved ones' lives in danger for someone who didn't think their life's choices through? 

Of course the average indian household scenario isn't simple and straightforward enough for me to hold patients responsible for such things; things like planned pregnancies and preconceptional visits are a distant dream in this country. 

But isn't a fetus, a healthy would-be living baby, supposed to be a positive phenomenon, a motivational tool for any ObGyn?

Questioning and justifying my life's decisions has become the single thing on my mind, all day long. It's tiring sometimes, but I can't help it. 

The swollen bellies and leaking vaginas, the groaning voices, the absolute lack of regard for any advice given to them, the obvious self-pity, the ill-hidden notion that me going above and beyond for them is their birthright-- there's only so much of it that I can tolerate. 

It's upsetting that I've entered Medicine because I felt passion for helping patients, but at times, they feel like my worst enemies-- like the one thing standing between me and peace, happiness and solace. I know of course, that this isn't true; If I could stop my mind's non-stop chatter, maybe I wouldn't have chosen this path. Maybe I wouldn't be more at peace when overworked, or maybe I wouldn't be scrubbing my bathroom floor with Harpic on the one day that I get to myself. Maybe I'd have chosen a different speciality, which would give me more alone and silent time, and maybe I would have been able to tolerate it without my mind unleashing torture on me. Maybe I wouldn't be dissecting each interaction to find the smallest of insinuations to hurt my ego, and again wasting my energy looking for a way to assuage it. 

Well, at least I've still got my blog. 

Familiarity

So I saw this today and felt like it was speaking right at me. I'm being held down by all that feels familiar. I'm being held down by the craving for comforts of the past. 

There's no better way to describe what's happening to me today. Logically, there's nothing wrong with the direction I'm headed in. It'll be A-OK, probably better than I deserve. I have a lot more than others in my position do, and most importantly, the one thing that matters most is at my side (as much as it's possible). 

Does it really matter that home, and a lot else that makes me feel warm and snuggly is far away? Does it matter that I'm a different person than I used to be, less dramatic, less comical, less excited-- maybe this is just me as an adult. Or well, maybe it's me trying, for once. 

Does it really matter that it takes me exponentially more effort to put into words and pen down my thoughts as it did before? When I've sacrificed my hair, youth and vitality for my career, what is my knack for writing? 

It's everything, that's what it is. 

Sitting idle in what's meant to be my new home for the next three years, there's so much I could be doing right now to brighten my future. And my present, really. But for some reason, the interest for such, and intrigue that once used to fill my heart has evaded me. I used to be the stereotypical young innocent hero enchanted by his beau, and now I've become the drunken, forlorn leftover excuse for a person that he turns into once she's married to someone else. 

Am I feeling sorry for myself? I don't notice anymore when that happens. 

I know the exact steps I can take to make things better, to create a new outlook for myself on this brand new life, but I absolutely lack the motivation it takes to move forward and make them happen. Stuck in the inertia of heaven-knows-what, physically exhausted from the work that knows no bounds, perpetually leading myself in circles thinking of the solution (the way out) from this mess, always landing back in the same situation, mentally tired by my own constant accept of defeat without a proper trial at success; I wonder when things will change. 

Once, writing used to be the perfect outlet for me. Now that I've made it my strength, it doesn't feel so relaxing anymore; I'm scared it'll turn into just another thing at which I've failed/lost. 

The truth is, there's always someone else who can do anything better than you. No matter how much you want your existence to matter, to mean something; it never will. There will always have been someone else who could have done the world just as much good as you did. There will never be an alteration in the net good/bad taking place, since once there's such a thing, the very standards by which good and bad are measured automatically get readjusted. The truth is, it could have been literally anyone else born in your place, and it would not have made a difference to anybody. 

My new role as the driver, though supposed to be infuriating, as it would be for any other MS resident, is instead rather calming. It expects very little out of me, which I can fulfill with no problem. It's the only thing left that I can contribute to this new world that cannot be replaced. 

Slowly and gradually I feel a small fear kindling in the pit of my stomach, of the future that I'd always believed would be bright. What if I'm not loved and cherished; what if, instead, I become the anchor that holds back my loved ones to something from which they want freedom? What if the world would have been a better place without me?

🤰👶🤱

Do this, do that and don't forget a third;

I make a mental list of everything I've heard.

Finish this, tidy up here, and write this down

Drain that bladder, drape this gown. 

The work is plenty, the atmosphere is lush

This is the exact adrenaline rush

Which makes it worth the compromise,

The sacrifice and the many broken ties.  

It gives such pride that I make a difference; 

Slowly, I overcome my innate diffidence.

That my presence is of some meaning

The idea leaves me simply beaming

The satisfaction that I owned this task

Is most of what I could ever ask.

Being able to fulfill all demands,

Others' well-being in your own capable hands

Can take you from being a limpid zero

To feeling like a superhero!

But soon I see, the rush is of two kinds

That perpetually put me in two different minds. 

The first, that fills me with a feeling of valour

The latter, that leaves me with a sickly pallor

All's well until the truth is let to unravel

Judgement coming down hard on me like a gavel

Tearing apart my tender poise

A more experienced hand, a frustrated voice

Saying I forgot a multitude of tasks, 

Why have I messed up again? It asks. 

What is it this time?

I wonder, feeling dirty as grime

Counting back mistakes from times ancient

What've I done; discharged the wrong patient, 

Or placed sutures that came apart?

Did I put an end before it could even start?

A heavy lump in my throat,

A sudden urge to jump right into a moat

The weight of the guilt drags me down

Makes me wonder if I am fit to be a part of this scrupulous town. 

All I can think of is my comfort zone

The many things that were my very own

My mother's lap, that's always so warm 

Protecting me from any kind of storm. 

The hug from my dad that's so full of love

Things that are missing now, thereof

Many an affectionate, familiar tone,

Rushing to my side on hearing the smallest groan

The family that revolves around me

The friends that had willingly found me

The many circumstances that put me at ease

The house, the bed and the wayward trees

Here, on the contrary to everything I've been told

And that's been repeated many fold 

This universe does have me at it's centre

Only those who agree are allowed to enter.

There's no third world looking for my service

No expectations, I needn't be nervous. 

No women telling me how many contractions,

No one standing at the threshold overlooking my actions

I don't make mistakes, for I don't even work

Though underneath the sea of purposive ignorance, guilt does lurk

To cover it up, I would grow my ever-expanding stomach pouch

Eat, sleep and morph into part of the couch. 

New

As I settle into my bed on the floor with my laptop, the waxing of a persistent, pulsating dull ache at the back of my head reminds me that everything is now different. My mind blanks out as the pain takes over my thoughts. As it wanes away, I feel that I didn't need that reminder. This change is something that's already on my mind.
A teddy bear hug, a deep conversation away from normalcy, I miss the sweet nothings I always knew never to take for granted. The love that used to scare me, for what would happen when it wouldn't be at my disposal?
All my discomfort anticipated by those who surround me, distancing it from me before I can even realize what would have hit me.  Being able to fall sick and knowing beforehand that I'd be taken care of, always choosing to take the leap knowing that I'd be rescued before I hit the ground-- Oh, what a luxury it was!
And now, ants. Ants all around me, I feel like a whole different person when I simply flick them away rather than squealing and screaming like my original self. There's always a point when the drama over touching insects has to die. That point, is probably when you begin to anticipate the entry of rats into your life.
A couple of empty vessels giggling, gossiping without shame in a grave area amidst a serious situation. A middle-aged woman given an unfit degree and job up to which she's never strove to live. Are these the people I am to look up to now? This is what put everything into question. Pain will always be welcome with me, even if not with a smile, but only if it is the cost of growth. Here, I feel myself wither away. The good parts of me slowly fade away like my headache, only to reappear time and again, a painful reminder that things will never be the same again. Will they one day be completely obsolete?
Will that be the end of this story?
...
That morbid stench that persisted throughout this post-- sometimes all it needs is a cup of my most recent obsession, black coffee (a liking that resulted from the newfound lack of milk in my life), a damp shirt from the light mist that's sprayed on me by the sky even as I glare at it from my personal balcony, a red bottle of Hit spray with a narrow nozzle, a short refreshing nap, just the right amount of food (that isn't forced on me), nasha with brand new, caring, genuine people who I've suddenly discovered right under my nose this whole time, humming softly along with a new playlist of feel-good songs, a comfortable conversation with an old friend, a couple of hours of study to put everything into perspective, the peace and quiet to finish this post-- these are some of the things that can make everything better at once.
And there's the phenomenon that will make everything worth it-- the handful of warmth that my heart will feel every time that I can possibly afford, the gentle flow of strength and affection that comes around whenever I ask for it, the watchful eye that makes me feel secure like never before.🤍