All the big dreams

All the idealistic plans 

The castles in the air 

That were the essence of my being

The promises I made to myself

To be much more than I ever could

To work harder than I ever do

To turn into something I could love

All the inspiration within

And the noble ideas, intents 

That made me who I was 

Are now a part of someone else 

Someone I used to be 

And now actually respect 

Today, here I lay

Just a figment of that former self

Capable of nothing like I'd dreamt

Incapable of the dreams themselves

Looking at the past 

As if through a tinted glass 

Just wishing I could again be 

Someone that I used to so deeply loathe

I've outdone myself

Even when I thought I could

Never have gotten any worse. 

But how can I seek 

Things so far out of my reach

When now even regular work

Seems like a mountain of hurdles

To fall asleep, to be awake

To gulp pills that keep me functioning

To smile, to stand, to move, to walk

To talk, or not to talk 

Part 2: Chiselled and Polished

There was a major life-changing event before the start of my adult life, and then recently nine years later, there was another. This change was more surprising, because I thought I was already done being chiselled and polished; little did I know. 

I remember the dreamy young girl I was, that always wanted to do more and have more. I remember the young girl that dreamt of perfection and built castles in the air all day long. I remember when the dreams in my waking head were better than the ones in my sleep, and when I was gullible enough to plan what I'd do after they all came true. When I believed that everyone's hearts are pure internally and everyone does their best to be good. When I believed that intent was more important than result, and sensitivity was more important than progress. I remember when I credited emotions, pain and temporary entities more than tangible, real things that have an everlasting effect on people and families. I remember when I believed that everyone has a right to be heard, and people's opinions matter more than what's actually right. I remember when I thought that everyone could change if told in the right way, and that speaking with such tact could have an effect on anyone's mind. I remember when I was dreamy enough to write down all my thoughts and hope to change the world with them. 

...

Well good morning honey, but none of that's happening. 

It isn't cynicism to accept the way the world is after repeated observation. No person changes unless they decide to themselves, and sometimes not even then. Inspiration and pure intentions don't have any role here except for being crushed under the sole of someone's shoe like dirt. Pain exists, but it's only those who push past it that actually achieve anything in their lives. Dreams are nice to dream about, but life is different; life is about finding happiness where you are and being content with what's already available. If you aren't happy today, there's no way that a different situation will make you happy. No circumstance can change your internal state of mind; that's something that changes when you decide it does. 

As Good a Place As Ever

When I came to this city, I was a foreigner here; I was alone in this small ecosystem that had been functioning just fine without me. I was scared it would reject me like a bad organ transplant. On the contrary, I've settled in quite well here now. Like a caterpillar to a cocoon, I'm pretty warm in this newfound comfort zone. Here, there's little to worry about and less to accomplish. There are fewer social goals to reach on a daily basis. The deafening silence is slowly turning into comfortable solitude. The lack of adventure is turning into peaceful tranquility. 

The lack of disturbance helps me experience each day more meaningfully. It makes my inner voice loud and clear, and helps me hear when it tells me that I'm on the right path. It makes me sure of what I want, and that aiming for nobility isn't wrong. 

Will it really be so bad if I'm true to myself rather than falling into the habit of hypocrisy? Will it be so bad, if I'm honest about enjoying tradition, rather than succumbing to the pressure of westernization? Will it be so bad, if I admit that I'm old fashioned rather than try hard to keep up with the trend? Will it be so bad if I gracefully grow into an adult, rather than desperately cling to my bygone teenage? 

What is life if not sitting idly, waiting for each passing moment to be over? And this seems like just as good a place as any other, to do exactly that. 

Rid of the Rat Race

What's this mad rat race?

It starts with academic excellence,

And goes on to the accumulation of green stuff,

Finding a soulmate and then to create

Little ones of yourself,

To whom you pass on your ideas thoughts

And dreams you lost out on

While you were busy with life's crazy rat race. 

And then you have to travel the world, and 

Update others of your adventures!

The need to match up to those around 

Is never-dying, never remitting;

The comparison is never gratifying. 

Why not take a moment 

To introspect; what's within?

What do you want? 

Individualise your desires 

What's important to you? 

What do you want your life to be about?

What are you hoping to achieve? 

Is happiness the same for one and all?

Or are you happy and comfortable

With exactly the scenario in which you are?

Stop running and look around yourself.

Maybe you're already where you've been trying to reach! 

Maybe, sometimes, or maybe just this once

This is enough. 

Success means different things 

And often lies only in the child-like mind.

You can fool that juvenile entity

Into thinking whatever is best for you!

A failure is a failure no matter what she achieves,

Once she's set herself to be one.

Happiness lies within--

Not far away at the mountains or sea,

Or in the union with another.

Find what it means to you,

What makes you sleep easy at night. 

What makes your life worth living?

What gets your mental motor running?

What triggers the raging passion within

That had been lying dormant inside 

Unbeknownst to even you, it's owner?

Give it your best to reach out to it. 

And once you get there,

And it's finally tangible and all around you,

Experience it to the fullest! Give it time.

Bathe in the glory you've reached

Before you run to the next finish line. 

Learn to enjoy the journey,

And not be diverted by superficial shows

Of extravaganza and fake smiles

Of those who seem better off than yourself.

The one to beat is the internal strife

Between you and yourself-

That's where the real competition lies. 

Because at the very end,

There's only one person left 

Who still cares to evaluate you,

Only one person left to whom you're answerable--

And that's your very own self. 

Reality

It's astonishing how far apart ground-level Indian reality is from the western TV shows we 20-somethings (myself included) like to watch. I remember a particular series of episodes on an American show wherein a couple terminates their pregnancy because the fetus is prenatally found to have osteogenesis imperfecta. 

The couple goes through it all together, the process of painful labour, that can't be avoided even for a baby that won't live to grow up, the delivery of a fetus that dies a few minutes later in the arms of its mother, and the weeks of mourning and recovery after the incident. Subsequently, conception is a painful thought for them, requiring much mental preparation and assurance.

 

I've terminated so many pregnancies for the reason of fetal anomalies in the past year and a half; this isn't the scene where I work.

There's less thought of the fetus as a possibly live child, and more of the worry that a handicapped child will cause unbearable financial strain and hassle to raise.

The father is nowhere to be seen after his initial signature implying his consent to whatever is happening. Of course this absence is due to the rule that no males are allowed inside the labour room complex at our hospital, but I have a hunch that they wouldn't have been around anyway; what's the place for a male in Indian society where there's so many procedures related to the female genital tract, ending in mucus, blood admixed with their baby expelling out of a "dirty" area? Women require other women to support them through such things. 

Where would the men stand and at what would they (uncomfortably) look, as the labouring mother screams in pain and discomfort? 

Even healthy babies are seen by their dads only once they're cleaned of all the slippery goo; once they're cute. 

In my version of reality, such a pregnancy termination ends in a really ugly fetus, probably a swollen head or deformed limbs, lying (almost) lifeless on the cold hard steel table near the mum's perineum, while attendees stand at a distance and view the alien-being from a distance, hesitant to even touch it. It's obviously traumatic, but in a whole different way. I've witnessed way more shocked relief than miserable tears accompany this scenario. 

The subsequent conception is done under pressure of the ever-meddling family, with the lady worried that another unhealthy baby may indicate something about her own quality, leading to a lifetime of having to face blame and ridicule. 

I guess I've made it sound like the reality I witness daily is worse in all ways. 

Sometimes I feel pity for my patients, who don't have the maturity, time or leisure to experience life the same way that educated and well-off Indians or Westerners do. But at most times, I feel happy that they're too young, simple and busy to anticipate the mental suffering that'll accompany a painful event; afterall, it's that anticipation and preoccupation with the situation that often makes it even more agonising. 

Stoicism and surgery

A composed, puzzled and thoughtful look is what was painted over my face as the vessel I'd placed on the stove caught fire; what do I now do? That productive question was the only thing on my mind. 

I realised the mistake I'd made as the simmering flames rose to an above eye-level height, reducing the outer layers of the poor singed bowl on the stove to black soot. Filling a bottle from the fastest tap within reach, I poured some water into the fire, watching as it calmly fizzled out. 

 I had rendered it completely defeated. I was unable to reverse the destruction it had caused, but at least I put an end to it's ability to endlessly reproduce the same wreckage many times over. 

The way I reacted to this situation is a perfect representation of all the different ways my mind has changed over the past year and a half. At the risk of sounding inordinately complacent-- there's only so many times you can watch an artery spurt out a thick stream of fresh red blood after your own wrong incision, before you learn to keep your calm and manage the situation. Surgery, albeit only one that I'll be doing over and over until its steps are deeply ingrained in my muscles, has changed me as a person. 

I love the change it's brought, and I love that I haven't the time to overthink the little things it as I always would have. I love the mellow state of mind that I perpetually bear these days, my mind simply either focused on handling the terrors of daily life, or numb from gratitude that I'm on a break. 

More than anything, I love the position I hold at the hospital, the hero that fights their suffering, the spokesperson of my patients' well-being, the fierce defender of their welfare; almost, the ultimate mother-figure. 

The Meditation Hall

Surgery; the act of opening the body to humanly fix something that nature has ruined. It took me over a year to make peace with the fact that I'm stuck having to do it, but now that I have, it's something I've come to love.

The OT was a dreaded posting during college years, because I could always see or understand nothing over the dozens of bodies on their tip toes and large heads with unruly hair that blocked the sight of everything that could pique any interest in me. All it seemed like was a hell a lot of trouble for such a short procedure. It seemed far too complex and far fetched to ever know closely or even be worth the effort. 

There's a write-up I saved from my first close encounter with surgery during my internship, when I scrubbed in to hold the retractor for a case of peritonitis; here's an excerpt from it that's worth sharing here: 

"The PGs started with a long vertical incision on the abdomen, opening it up to let the bubbling green fluid spew. They separated each organ and I helped to suction out the infected fluid from under and around it. That's when I understood-- we're just cleaning around in here, that's what we're doing! Move aside the liver, suction from below, hold the stomach at this angle and suction on either side of the mesentery, press down so the fluid will come up and you can suction it out; it was much like moving aside the sofa to vacuum under it, taking a mop to the floor to clear the fluid and squeezing the sponge which we wash dishes with. Then came the time to find the perforation, the reason for this entire mess. The PGs found a small perforation in the stomach, and ran the bowel anyway to rule out another one. This was when I asked, “can I touch too?” 

They laughed and said that of course I could, so I went all in. I ran the bowel just for the feel of it, and boy, I was swept off my feet. 

The glistening pink small intestine, the mighty folded large intestine and the flippery stomach all took me by surprise! Who knew, this is what exists inside me too? Well, of course I knew-- I'd seen videos, pictures, even drawn them several times for exams. But seeing them with the naked eye, sliding my hand in their slippery grooves; it felt like seeing the face of God. 

I know it sounds cloying, but I really felt like at that point, I'd seen everything. 

While I still wouldn't consider taking it up as a speciality, I do understand the magic now."

Two years later, I didn't think I'd be doing surgeries on my own. I am proud, happy and humbled by this, and by everything that's led me upto this. The responsibility of a patient's body given to me when I've got a sharp scalpel in my hand is not something to be taken lightly. It seeks a great deal of trustworthiness from me. Not something that I can decline, there is no choice but to live upto those demands. 

While in the OT, you must be in control of your faculties and all that is in contact with you. Your mind must control every millimeter that your needle covers before it can do so. At the same time, when you're applying a ton of physical effort for something, you're probably doing it wrong. Whether or not you've grasped the right technique can be confirmed by how easy it feels. 

Nothing can rush you in the OT, and nothing really should. You must be skilful, swift, precise and accurate; this is the only way to be fast. Panic is of no use, and neither is repetitive, incomplete, unnecessary efforts in any direction. You get to be calm. You must be calm.

What I love best about surgery is that the OT is a place where all of time stands still;

It's almost like meditation. 

Everything that happened before this on-going surgery, whether pleasant or unpleasant bears no significance. Whatever may happen later, too, is irrelevant. Whatever hell breaks loose outside is of no consequence inside the OT. All that matters is here, now, and what happens or what I do in this present moment. 

It's just me, and my skin. Me, and my rectus. Me, and my uterus. 

❤️