October 21-November 3 we stayed in Barcelona in a rented apartment. In between, October 24-31 we were on a most marvelous Western Medit. Cruise. Here are some stills of Barcelona:
http://picasaweb.google.com/rohinir171/BarcelonaSpain#
Enjoy!
Ciao.
Ro
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Montserrat, Spain
The trip to Montserrat, Spain recommended by friends who also accompanied us was breathtaking! Enjoy!
http://picasaweb.google.com/rohinir171/MontserratSpain#
Ciao!
Ro.
http://picasaweb.google.com/rohinir171/MontserratSpain#
Ciao!
Ro.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Arundhati Roy, Kashmir, Obama's Visit to India
Kashmir’s Fruits of Discord
Op-Ed
By ARUNDHATI ROY
November 8, 2010, The New York Times Nov. 9 in print)
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/opinion/09roy.html?scp=1&sq=Arundhati%20Roy,%20Op-Ed&st=cse">http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/opinion/09roy.html?scp=1&sq=Arundhati%20Roy,%20Op-Ed&st=cse (My italicized and boldface comments follow below the line at end of piece)
New Delhi:
A WEEK before he was elected in 2008, President Obama said that solving the dispute over Kashmir’s struggle for self-determination — which has led to three wars between India and Pakistan since 1947 — would be among his "critical tasks." His remarks were greeted with consternation in India, and he has said almost nothing about Kashmir since then.
But on Monday, during his visit here, he pleased his hosts immensely by saying the United States would not intervene in Kashmir and announcing his support for India’s seat on the United Nations Security Council. While he spoke eloquently about threats of terrorism, he kept quiet about human rights abuses in Kashmir.
Whether Mr. Obama decides to change his position on Kashmir again depends on several factors: how the war in Afghanistan is going, how much help the United States needs from Pakistan and whether the government of India goes aircraft shopping this winter. (An order for 10 Boeing C-17 Globemaster III aircraft, worth $5.8 billion, among other huge business deals in the pipeline, may ensure the president’s silence.) But neither Mr. Obama’s silence nor his intervention is likely to make the people in Kashmir drop the stones in their hands.
I was in Kashmir 10 days ago, in that beautiful valley on the Pakistani border, home to three great civilizations — Islamic, Hindu and Buddhist. It’s a valley of myth and history. Some believe that Jesus died there; others that Moses went there to find the lost tribe. Millions worship at the Hazratbal shrine, where a few days a year a hair of the Prophet Muhammad is displayed to believers.
Now Kashmir, caught between the influence of militant Islam from Pakistan and Afghanistan, America’s interests in the region and Indian nationalism (which is becoming increasingly aggressive and "Hinduized"), is considered a nuclear flash point. It is patrolled by more than half a million soldiers and has become the most highly militarized zone in the world.
The atmosphere on the highway between Kashmir’s capital, Srinagar, and my destination, the little apple town of Shopian in the south, was tense. Groups of soldiers were deployed along the highway, in the orchards, in the fields, on the rooftops and outside shops in the little market squares. Despite months of curfew, the "stone pelters" calling for "azadi" (freedom), inspired by the Palestinian intifada, were out again. Some stretches of the highway were covered with so many of these stones that you needed an S.U.V. to drive over them.
Fortunately the friends I was with knew alternative routes down the back lanes and village roads. The "longcut" gave me the time to listen to their stories of this year’s uprising. The youngest, still a boy, told us that when three of his friends were arrested for throwing stones, the police pulled out their fingernails — every nail, on both hands.
For three years in a row now, Kashmiris have been in the streets, protesting what they see as India’s violent occupation. But the militant uprising against the Indian government that began with the support of Pakistan 20 years ago is in retreat. The Indian Army estimates that there are fewer than 500 militants operating in the Kashmir Valley today. The war has left 70,000 dead and tens of thousands debilitated by torture. Many, many thousands have "disappeared." More than 200,000 Kashmiri Hindus have fled the valley. Though the number of militants has come down, the number of Indian soldiers deployed remains undiminished.
But India’s military domination ought not to be confused with a political victory. Ordinary people armed with nothing but their fury have risen up against the Indian security forces. A whole generation of young people who have grown up in a grid of checkpoints, bunkers, army camps and interrogation centers, whose childhood was spent witnessing "catch and kill" operations, whose imaginations are imbued with spies, informers, "unidentified gunmen," intelligence operatives and rigged elections, has lost its patience as well as its fear. With an almost mad courage, Kashmir’s young have faced down armed soldiers and taken back their streets.
Since April, when the army killed three civilians and then passed them off as "terrorists," masked stone throwers, most of them students, have brought life in Kashmir to a grinding halt. The Indian government has retaliated with bullets, curfew and censorship. Just in the last few months, 111 people have been killed, most of them teenagers; more than 3,000 have been wounded and 1,000 arrested.
But still they come out, the young, and throw stones. They don’t seem to have leaders or belong to a political party. They represent themselves. And suddenly the second-largest standing army in the world doesn’t quite know what to do. The Indian government doesn’t know whom to negotiate with. And many Indians are slowly realizing they have been lied to for decades. The once solid consensus on Kashmir suddenly seems a little fragile.
I WAS in a bit of trouble the morning we drove to Shopian. A few days earlier, at a public meeting in Delhi, I said that Kashmir was disputed territory and, contrary to the Indian government’s claims, it couldn’t be called an "integral" part of India. Outraged politicians and news anchors demanded that I be arrested for sedition. The government, terrified of being seen as "soft," issued threatening statements, and the situation escalated. Day after day, on prime-time news, I was being called a traitor, a white-collar terrorist and several other names reserved for insubordinate women. But sitting in that car on the road to Shopian, listening to my friends, I could not bring myself to regret what I had said in Delhi.
We were on our way to visit a man called Shakeel Ahmed Ahangar. The previous day he had come all the way to Srinagar, where I had been staying, to press me, with an urgency that was hard to ignore, to visit Shopian.
I first met Shakeel in June 2009, only a few weeks after the bodies of Nilofar, his 22-year-old wife, and Asiya, his 17-year-old sister, were found lying a thousand yards apart in a shallow stream in a high-security zone — a floodlit area between army and state police camps. The first postmortem report confirmed rape and murder. But then the system kicked in. New autopsy reports overturned the initial findings and, after the ugly business of exhuming the bodies, rape was ruled out. It was declared that in both cases the cause of death was drowning. Protests shut Shopian down for 47 days, and the valley was convulsed with anger for months. Eventually it looked as though the Indian government had managed to defuse the crisis. But the anger over the killings has magnified the intensity of this year’s uprising.
Shakeel wanted us to visit him in Shopian because he was being threatened by the police for speaking out, and hoped our visit would demonstrate that people even outside of Kashmir were looking out for him, that he was not alone.
It was apple season in Kashmir and as we approached Shopian we could see families in their orchards, busily packing apples into wooden crates in the slanting afternoon light. I worried that a couple of the little red-cheeked children who looked so much like apples themselves might be crated by mistake. The news of our visit had preceded us, and a small knot of people were waiting on the road.
Shakeel’s house is on the edge of the graveyard where his wife and sister are buried. It was dark by the time we arrived, and there was a power failure. We sat in a semicircle around a lantern and listened to him tell the story we all knew so well. Other people entered the room. Other terrible stories poured out, ones that are not in human rights reports, stories about what happens to women who live in remote villages where there are more soldiers than civilians. Shakeel’s young son tumbled around in the darkness, moving from lap to lap. "Soon he’ll be old enough to understand what happened to his mother," Shakeel said more than once.
Just when we rose to leave, a messenger arrived to say that Shakeel’s father-in-law — Nilofar’s father — was expecting us at his home. We sent our regrets; it was late and if we stayed longer it would be unsafe for us to drive back.
Minutes after we said goodbye and crammed ourselves into the car, a friend’s phone rang. It was a journalist colleague of his with news for me: "The police are typing up the warrant. She’s going to be arrested tonight." We drove in silence for a while, past truck after truck being loaded with apples. "It’s unlikely," my friend said finally. "It’s just psy-ops."
But then, as we picked up speed on the highway, we were overtaken by a car full of men waving us down. Two men on a motorcycle asked our driver to pull over. I steeled myself for what was coming. A man appeared at the car window. He had slanting emerald eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard that went halfway down his chest. He introduced himself as Abdul Hai, father of the murdered Nilofar.
"How could I let you go without your apples?" he said. The bikers started loading two crates of apples into the back of our car. Then Abdul Hai reached into the pockets of his worn brown cloak, and brought out an egg. He placed it in my palm and folded my fingers over it. And then he placed another in my other hand. The eggs were still warm. "God bless and keep you," he said, and walked away into the dark. What greater reward could a writer want?
I wasn’t arrested that night. Instead, in what is becoming a common political strategy, officials outsourced their displeasure to the mob. A few days after I returned home, the women’s wing of the Bharatiya Janata Party (the right-wing Hindu nationalist opposition) staged a demonstration outside my house, calling for my arrest. Television vans arrived in advance to broadcast the event live. The murderous Bajrang Dal, a militant Hindu group that, in 2002, spearheaded attacks against Muslims in Gujarat in which more than a thousand people were killed, have announced that they are going to "fix" me with all the means at their disposal, including by filing criminal charges against me in different courts across the country.
Indian nationalists and the government seem to believe that they can fortify their idea of a resurgent India with a combination of bullying and Boeing airplanes. But they don’t understand the subversive strength of warm, boiled eggs.
______________
Ms. Roy has included many facts in this piece that I have no way of verifying, though some of these "facts" made my stomach turn, and here are a few of them:
*The youngest, still a boy, told us that when three of his friends were arrested for throwing stones, the police pulled out their fingernails — every nail, on both hands.
*The militant uprising against the Indian government that began with the support of Pakistan 20 years ago is in retreat. If so, is it possible that it’s because of the presence of the Indian troupes in the region?
*Kashmir is patrolled by more than half a million soldiers and has become the most highly militarized zone in the world. This lament is preceded by: Now Kashmir, caught between the influence of militant Islam from Pakistan and Afghanistan, America’s interests in the region and Indian nationalism (which is becoming increasingly aggressive and "Hinduized"), is considered a nuclear flash point.
Ms. Roy’s words can be very persuasive because her now-and-then intoxicating prose can fog up one’s thinking abilities. Here are few examples:
*government of India goes aircraft shopping (what a sharp way to express this fact!)
*I worried that a couple of the little red-cheeked children [these kids are among the apple pickers in the valley] who looked so much like apples themselves might be crated by mistake. Nothing is more intoxicating than the image of red-cheeked, cherubic children.
*And then he [the man whose daughter had been killed . . . by who is not quite clear) placed another [egg] in my other hand. The eggs were still warm. "God bless and keep you," he said, and walked away into the dark. What greater reward could a writer want? Indeed, what could be more rewarding? Not a Booker, not the Lannan Cultural Freedom Prize, nor the numerous other honors! I’m not being tongue-in-cheek. I can fully relate to Ms. Roy’s sentiments because in life the most spontaneous gestures are really the most rewarding.
Though the article is about human rights abuse in Kashmir and the various officials’ and governments’ "hypocritical" ways in dealing with the Kashmir issue, once again, the article came across as being all about Ms. Roy, ultimately.
Although from different backgrounds, and different upbringings, I share many of Ms. Roy’s sensibilities and admire her writing, yet reading this piece I couldn’t help but feel that governance is a very different ball game from writing. It is a prosaic activity where mistakes lead to ghastly outcomes while writing (in Ms. Roy’s case, prose) too can do this, it’s not the same kind or at the same level. For instance, I found the syntax (I guess, in the case of an icon’s piece, the New York Times doesn’t seem to mind the less forceful passive voice to the more direct active) in "we were overtaken by a car full of men waving us down" jarring. I felt that a crispier construction would have been: "A car filled with men waving their hands overtook us." A writer can get away with such minor aberration. But, since governing has to do with people’s lives there is just no room for error, but, since humans do not have all the answers to all the questions, the quagmire that Ms. Roy laments about in Kashmir as do the rest of us will continue. Ultimately, was the piece about the alleged “fatwah” on her head by the Hindu extremists or about the tortured and dying people of Kashmir? Is she once again being a narcissistic opportunist riding on the most visible and controversial issue of the day, thus increasing her own visibility (I think this thinking was reflected by many during her involvement with the Narmada dam protests—the-then-flavor-of-the-time---by her), or will her involvement truly help this particular group of dissatisfied people and the seemingly never-ending Kashmir saga?
Op-Ed
By ARUNDHATI ROY
November 8, 2010, The New York Times Nov. 9 in print)
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/opinion/09roy.html?scp=1&sq=Arundhati%20Roy,%20Op-Ed&st=cse">http://www.nytimes.com/2010/11/09/opinion/09roy.html?scp=1&sq=Arundhati%20Roy,%20Op-Ed&st=cse (My italicized and boldface comments follow below the line at end of piece)
New Delhi:
A WEEK before he was elected in 2008, President Obama said that solving the dispute over Kashmir’s struggle for self-determination — which has led to three wars between India and Pakistan since 1947 — would be among his "critical tasks." His remarks were greeted with consternation in India, and he has said almost nothing about Kashmir since then.
But on Monday, during his visit here, he pleased his hosts immensely by saying the United States would not intervene in Kashmir and announcing his support for India’s seat on the United Nations Security Council. While he spoke eloquently about threats of terrorism, he kept quiet about human rights abuses in Kashmir.
Whether Mr. Obama decides to change his position on Kashmir again depends on several factors: how the war in Afghanistan is going, how much help the United States needs from Pakistan and whether the government of India goes aircraft shopping this winter. (An order for 10 Boeing C-17 Globemaster III aircraft, worth $5.8 billion, among other huge business deals in the pipeline, may ensure the president’s silence.) But neither Mr. Obama’s silence nor his intervention is likely to make the people in Kashmir drop the stones in their hands.
I was in Kashmir 10 days ago, in that beautiful valley on the Pakistani border, home to three great civilizations — Islamic, Hindu and Buddhist. It’s a valley of myth and history. Some believe that Jesus died there; others that Moses went there to find the lost tribe. Millions worship at the Hazratbal shrine, where a few days a year a hair of the Prophet Muhammad is displayed to believers.
Now Kashmir, caught between the influence of militant Islam from Pakistan and Afghanistan, America’s interests in the region and Indian nationalism (which is becoming increasingly aggressive and "Hinduized"), is considered a nuclear flash point. It is patrolled by more than half a million soldiers and has become the most highly militarized zone in the world.
The atmosphere on the highway between Kashmir’s capital, Srinagar, and my destination, the little apple town of Shopian in the south, was tense. Groups of soldiers were deployed along the highway, in the orchards, in the fields, on the rooftops and outside shops in the little market squares. Despite months of curfew, the "stone pelters" calling for "azadi" (freedom), inspired by the Palestinian intifada, were out again. Some stretches of the highway were covered with so many of these stones that you needed an S.U.V. to drive over them.
Fortunately the friends I was with knew alternative routes down the back lanes and village roads. The "longcut" gave me the time to listen to their stories of this year’s uprising. The youngest, still a boy, told us that when three of his friends were arrested for throwing stones, the police pulled out their fingernails — every nail, on both hands.
For three years in a row now, Kashmiris have been in the streets, protesting what they see as India’s violent occupation. But the militant uprising against the Indian government that began with the support of Pakistan 20 years ago is in retreat. The Indian Army estimates that there are fewer than 500 militants operating in the Kashmir Valley today. The war has left 70,000 dead and tens of thousands debilitated by torture. Many, many thousands have "disappeared." More than 200,000 Kashmiri Hindus have fled the valley. Though the number of militants has come down, the number of Indian soldiers deployed remains undiminished.
But India’s military domination ought not to be confused with a political victory. Ordinary people armed with nothing but their fury have risen up against the Indian security forces. A whole generation of young people who have grown up in a grid of checkpoints, bunkers, army camps and interrogation centers, whose childhood was spent witnessing "catch and kill" operations, whose imaginations are imbued with spies, informers, "unidentified gunmen," intelligence operatives and rigged elections, has lost its patience as well as its fear. With an almost mad courage, Kashmir’s young have faced down armed soldiers and taken back their streets.
Since April, when the army killed three civilians and then passed them off as "terrorists," masked stone throwers, most of them students, have brought life in Kashmir to a grinding halt. The Indian government has retaliated with bullets, curfew and censorship. Just in the last few months, 111 people have been killed, most of them teenagers; more than 3,000 have been wounded and 1,000 arrested.
But still they come out, the young, and throw stones. They don’t seem to have leaders or belong to a political party. They represent themselves. And suddenly the second-largest standing army in the world doesn’t quite know what to do. The Indian government doesn’t know whom to negotiate with. And many Indians are slowly realizing they have been lied to for decades. The once solid consensus on Kashmir suddenly seems a little fragile.
I WAS in a bit of trouble the morning we drove to Shopian. A few days earlier, at a public meeting in Delhi, I said that Kashmir was disputed territory and, contrary to the Indian government’s claims, it couldn’t be called an "integral" part of India. Outraged politicians and news anchors demanded that I be arrested for sedition. The government, terrified of being seen as "soft," issued threatening statements, and the situation escalated. Day after day, on prime-time news, I was being called a traitor, a white-collar terrorist and several other names reserved for insubordinate women. But sitting in that car on the road to Shopian, listening to my friends, I could not bring myself to regret what I had said in Delhi.
We were on our way to visit a man called Shakeel Ahmed Ahangar. The previous day he had come all the way to Srinagar, where I had been staying, to press me, with an urgency that was hard to ignore, to visit Shopian.
I first met Shakeel in June 2009, only a few weeks after the bodies of Nilofar, his 22-year-old wife, and Asiya, his 17-year-old sister, were found lying a thousand yards apart in a shallow stream in a high-security zone — a floodlit area between army and state police camps. The first postmortem report confirmed rape and murder. But then the system kicked in. New autopsy reports overturned the initial findings and, after the ugly business of exhuming the bodies, rape was ruled out. It was declared that in both cases the cause of death was drowning. Protests shut Shopian down for 47 days, and the valley was convulsed with anger for months. Eventually it looked as though the Indian government had managed to defuse the crisis. But the anger over the killings has magnified the intensity of this year’s uprising.
Shakeel wanted us to visit him in Shopian because he was being threatened by the police for speaking out, and hoped our visit would demonstrate that people even outside of Kashmir were looking out for him, that he was not alone.
It was apple season in Kashmir and as we approached Shopian we could see families in their orchards, busily packing apples into wooden crates in the slanting afternoon light. I worried that a couple of the little red-cheeked children who looked so much like apples themselves might be crated by mistake. The news of our visit had preceded us, and a small knot of people were waiting on the road.
Shakeel’s house is on the edge of the graveyard where his wife and sister are buried. It was dark by the time we arrived, and there was a power failure. We sat in a semicircle around a lantern and listened to him tell the story we all knew so well. Other people entered the room. Other terrible stories poured out, ones that are not in human rights reports, stories about what happens to women who live in remote villages where there are more soldiers than civilians. Shakeel’s young son tumbled around in the darkness, moving from lap to lap. "Soon he’ll be old enough to understand what happened to his mother," Shakeel said more than once.
Just when we rose to leave, a messenger arrived to say that Shakeel’s father-in-law — Nilofar’s father — was expecting us at his home. We sent our regrets; it was late and if we stayed longer it would be unsafe for us to drive back.
Minutes after we said goodbye and crammed ourselves into the car, a friend’s phone rang. It was a journalist colleague of his with news for me: "The police are typing up the warrant. She’s going to be arrested tonight." We drove in silence for a while, past truck after truck being loaded with apples. "It’s unlikely," my friend said finally. "It’s just psy-ops."
But then, as we picked up speed on the highway, we were overtaken by a car full of men waving us down. Two men on a motorcycle asked our driver to pull over. I steeled myself for what was coming. A man appeared at the car window. He had slanting emerald eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard that went halfway down his chest. He introduced himself as Abdul Hai, father of the murdered Nilofar.
"How could I let you go without your apples?" he said. The bikers started loading two crates of apples into the back of our car. Then Abdul Hai reached into the pockets of his worn brown cloak, and brought out an egg. He placed it in my palm and folded my fingers over it. And then he placed another in my other hand. The eggs were still warm. "God bless and keep you," he said, and walked away into the dark. What greater reward could a writer want?
I wasn’t arrested that night. Instead, in what is becoming a common political strategy, officials outsourced their displeasure to the mob. A few days after I returned home, the women’s wing of the Bharatiya Janata Party (the right-wing Hindu nationalist opposition) staged a demonstration outside my house, calling for my arrest. Television vans arrived in advance to broadcast the event live. The murderous Bajrang Dal, a militant Hindu group that, in 2002, spearheaded attacks against Muslims in Gujarat in which more than a thousand people were killed, have announced that they are going to "fix" me with all the means at their disposal, including by filing criminal charges against me in different courts across the country.
Indian nationalists and the government seem to believe that they can fortify their idea of a resurgent India with a combination of bullying and Boeing airplanes. But they don’t understand the subversive strength of warm, boiled eggs.
______________
Ms. Roy has included many facts in this piece that I have no way of verifying, though some of these "facts" made my stomach turn, and here are a few of them:
*The youngest, still a boy, told us that when three of his friends were arrested for throwing stones, the police pulled out their fingernails — every nail, on both hands.
*The militant uprising against the Indian government that began with the support of Pakistan 20 years ago is in retreat. If so, is it possible that it’s because of the presence of the Indian troupes in the region?
*Kashmir is patrolled by more than half a million soldiers and has become the most highly militarized zone in the world. This lament is preceded by: Now Kashmir, caught between the influence of militant Islam from Pakistan and Afghanistan, America’s interests in the region and Indian nationalism (which is becoming increasingly aggressive and "Hinduized"), is considered a nuclear flash point.
Ms. Roy’s words can be very persuasive because her now-and-then intoxicating prose can fog up one’s thinking abilities. Here are few examples:
*government of India goes aircraft shopping (what a sharp way to express this fact!)
*I worried that a couple of the little red-cheeked children [these kids are among the apple pickers in the valley] who looked so much like apples themselves might be crated by mistake. Nothing is more intoxicating than the image of red-cheeked, cherubic children.
*And then he [the man whose daughter had been killed . . . by who is not quite clear) placed another [egg] in my other hand. The eggs were still warm. "God bless and keep you," he said, and walked away into the dark. What greater reward could a writer want? Indeed, what could be more rewarding? Not a Booker, not the Lannan Cultural Freedom Prize, nor the numerous other honors! I’m not being tongue-in-cheek. I can fully relate to Ms. Roy’s sentiments because in life the most spontaneous gestures are really the most rewarding.
Though the article is about human rights abuse in Kashmir and the various officials’ and governments’ "hypocritical" ways in dealing with the Kashmir issue, once again, the article came across as being all about Ms. Roy, ultimately.
Although from different backgrounds, and different upbringings, I share many of Ms. Roy’s sensibilities and admire her writing, yet reading this piece I couldn’t help but feel that governance is a very different ball game from writing. It is a prosaic activity where mistakes lead to ghastly outcomes while writing (in Ms. Roy’s case, prose) too can do this, it’s not the same kind or at the same level. For instance, I found the syntax (I guess, in the case of an icon’s piece, the New York Times doesn’t seem to mind the less forceful passive voice to the more direct active) in "we were overtaken by a car full of men waving us down" jarring. I felt that a crispier construction would have been: "A car filled with men waving their hands overtook us." A writer can get away with such minor aberration. But, since governing has to do with people’s lives there is just no room for error, but, since humans do not have all the answers to all the questions, the quagmire that Ms. Roy laments about in Kashmir as do the rest of us will continue. Ultimately, was the piece about the alleged “fatwah” on her head by the Hindu extremists or about the tortured and dying people of Kashmir? Is she once again being a narcissistic opportunist riding on the most visible and controversial issue of the day, thus increasing her own visibility (I think this thinking was reflected by many during her involvement with the Narmada dam protests—the-then-flavor-of-the-time---by her), or will her involvement truly help this particular group of dissatisfied people and the seemingly never-ending Kashmir saga?
Friday, November 12, 2010
Barcelona, Perpignan, Western Meditteranean Cruise, Mt Vesuvius
I am back! Went to Barcelona for four days followed by a 7-night cruise to Monte Carlo, Florence (docking at Livorno), Rome via the port of Civitavecchia, Naples, Majorca and back to Barcelona for another three nights. Things worked out so perfectly, I had to pinch myself. Everywhere we went the weather was exquisite and having taken the right kind of clothing, I was ready for any kind of weather other than snow. Plenty of that white stuff waits for me in New York in the coming months.
The highlight was probably climbing Mt. Vesuvius (4000 feet high) in Pompeii. A close second was jamming outside the magnificent, 13th century Barcelona Cathedral with a drummer from Brazil. As my friends, and my hubbie and I were walking through the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter where the Cathedral is, perchance I noticed a young guy setting up his drum set and an electronic tambura right next to the wall of the Cathedral. I was dumbstruck to see the tambura and expressed my surprise to the drummer. Without blinking an eyelid he asked me, "Are you singer?" No more questions asked we jammed then and there though the pitch on the tambura was much too low for me. Out of the blue I picked a song in the supposedly rain-inducing raga amrithavarhsini even as I hoped the gorgeous weather wouldn't be ruined by rain.
Seeing the drummer looking happier by the moment, I decided to finish the whole song running about three minutes, though when I began, this was not the plan. By now a crowd had gathered around us and many of the onlookers began clicking away their cameras. I kept hoping I wouldn't end up on YouTube. At the end of our session, the drummer with a striking resemblance to Christ as many of us imagine the Son of God to be, gave me a CD of his. I was truly blown away by the whole experience. His name is Pedro Collares and the CD is titled, "Organic Healing Sound." I can't wait to hear it.
Oh, yes, another fabulous experience was the train ride from Barcelona to Perpignan, France. While making my plans for my trip, I had wanted to visit a border town in France on my own other than Eze and Menton that were included in one of our land excursion organized by the cruise ship. I also wanted it to be a just a one-day trip. Bingo, Perpignan showed up on my radar screen and further research revealed this town to be a must-see place. After my visit, I could see why. The artist Salvadore Dali called the Perpignan railway station the center of the world. Apparently, he found some of his greatest inspirations at this station: "Following a visit in 1963, the Catalan (Spain) surrealist artist Salvador Dalí declared the city's railway station the centre of the Universe, saying that he always got his best ideas sitting in the waiting room." Personally, I didn't find anything inspiring about the station except that it was quaint.
Photos and videos and other interesting details of the trip to follow soon.
Ciao!
Ro.
The highlight was probably climbing Mt. Vesuvius (4000 feet high) in Pompeii. A close second was jamming outside the magnificent, 13th century Barcelona Cathedral with a drummer from Brazil. As my friends, and my hubbie and I were walking through the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter where the Cathedral is, perchance I noticed a young guy setting up his drum set and an electronic tambura right next to the wall of the Cathedral. I was dumbstruck to see the tambura and expressed my surprise to the drummer. Without blinking an eyelid he asked me, "Are you singer?" No more questions asked we jammed then and there though the pitch on the tambura was much too low for me. Out of the blue I picked a song in the supposedly rain-inducing raga amrithavarhsini even as I hoped the gorgeous weather wouldn't be ruined by rain.
Seeing the drummer looking happier by the moment, I decided to finish the whole song running about three minutes, though when I began, this was not the plan. By now a crowd had gathered around us and many of the onlookers began clicking away their cameras. I kept hoping I wouldn't end up on YouTube. At the end of our session, the drummer with a striking resemblance to Christ as many of us imagine the Son of God to be, gave me a CD of his. I was truly blown away by the whole experience. His name is Pedro Collares and the CD is titled, "Organic Healing Sound." I can't wait to hear it.
Oh, yes, another fabulous experience was the train ride from Barcelona to Perpignan, France. While making my plans for my trip, I had wanted to visit a border town in France on my own other than Eze and Menton that were included in one of our land excursion organized by the cruise ship. I also wanted it to be a just a one-day trip. Bingo, Perpignan showed up on my radar screen and further research revealed this town to be a must-see place. After my visit, I could see why. The artist Salvadore Dali called the Perpignan railway station the center of the world. Apparently, he found some of his greatest inspirations at this station: "Following a visit in 1963, the Catalan (Spain) surrealist artist Salvador Dalí declared the city's railway station the centre of the Universe, saying that he always got his best ideas sitting in the waiting room." Personally, I didn't find anything inspiring about the station except that it was quaint.
Photos and videos and other interesting details of the trip to follow soon.
Ciao!
Ro.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Chile Miners Rescue, Teamwork, Leadership, Faith, Diligence
Glued to the TV set, the world was spell bound for 22 1 /2 hours between Tuesday, October 12, 2010 midnight Chile time and the next day. The nail-biting, ultimate reality-show rescue operation of the 33 miners trapped in a remote part of the lyrical-sounding Atacama Desert in Chile bound the world together in a common cause at least for a day. I could only imagine how divine it must have felt when every single church bell in the deeply Catholic Chile rang, upon the emergence of the first miner, the 31-year-old Florencio Ávalos from the depths of dark copper-gold mine, his livelihood, that had swallowed him 68 days earlier.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Copiap%C3%B3_mining_accident (details)
Always, it seems likes it takes a crisis for the human spirit to soar. In that singular moment, the clear focus that’s forced on us---in this case, the rescue of the miners---filters out all unwanted thoughts and actions from us. Watching the Chilean rescue made me want to apply that model of selflessness, diligence and faith in my own every day life. How much more we can accomplish in life if unnecessary, second-guessing and negativity that often color our thinking are eliminated.
The handsome leader (in very sense of the word) of the pack, the 54-year-old Luis Alberto Urzua (54), shift supervisor of the trapped miners seemed to know exactly what to do in this crisis. And he was naturally the last one to emerge from the mine.
The rescue was a lesson at so many levels. Personally, it was a study in leadership, teamwork, the larger good, selflessness and faith. All created, of course, by a desperate situation. Charles Dickens’s opening line in a Tale of Two Cities comes to mind: It was the worst of times, it was the best of times. Oh, if only we could live in such harmony and peace forever! But, according to reports, the old monsters: greed, competition, envy and their cousins, banished just temporarily it seems, are back in town in the form of media merchants and the rescued miners making all kinds of deals. We live in such a world, so one can’t blame them.
Last night, as we often do, my older son Karthik, possibly too deep a thinker for his own good (at age 13 his favorite book was Herman Hess’s Siddhartha), and I philosophized. In his characteristic way, he said that maybe this incident would force the world to shift in a different direction. I reminded him of his unintended pun on the word "shift." The miners were on an unintended 69-day shift after all. We both laughed, which we don’t very often because I’m never sure if my take on the world and Karthik’s are correct, and so I don’t always participate in such philosophizing fully. This time, I do want to go along with Karthik entirely because I want him to be right so badly. Indeed, things seem to have got so out of control in terms of what our priorities ought to be that a corrective shift seems so badly needed.
In 2007 I had gone to Chile and had a wonderful time. After witnessing the recent miracle and triumph of the human spirit in that land, I have found a special niche in my heart for the little metal flag that my Chilean tour director gave me, and the slim copper bookmark displaying that rapier-thin, sliver of a country, which I use regularly. This winter when I wrap that cozy alpaca shawl I bought in Puerto Montt, Chile, I’ll feel extra warm and extra grateful to Chile for showing the world how we as humans with all our faults can come close to being perfect when the occasion calls for it . . . we just need to remember that we mustn't really wait for an occasion to strive to be "perfect."
Viva la Chile!
Ciao.
Ro.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2010_Copiap%C3%B3_mining_accident (details)
Always, it seems likes it takes a crisis for the human spirit to soar. In that singular moment, the clear focus that’s forced on us---in this case, the rescue of the miners---filters out all unwanted thoughts and actions from us. Watching the Chilean rescue made me want to apply that model of selflessness, diligence and faith in my own every day life. How much more we can accomplish in life if unnecessary, second-guessing and negativity that often color our thinking are eliminated.
The handsome leader (in very sense of the word) of the pack, the 54-year-old Luis Alberto Urzua (54), shift supervisor of the trapped miners seemed to know exactly what to do in this crisis. And he was naturally the last one to emerge from the mine.
The rescue was a lesson at so many levels. Personally, it was a study in leadership, teamwork, the larger good, selflessness and faith. All created, of course, by a desperate situation. Charles Dickens’s opening line in a Tale of Two Cities comes to mind: It was the worst of times, it was the best of times. Oh, if only we could live in such harmony and peace forever! But, according to reports, the old monsters: greed, competition, envy and their cousins, banished just temporarily it seems, are back in town in the form of media merchants and the rescued miners making all kinds of deals. We live in such a world, so one can’t blame them.
Last night, as we often do, my older son Karthik, possibly too deep a thinker for his own good (at age 13 his favorite book was Herman Hess’s Siddhartha), and I philosophized. In his characteristic way, he said that maybe this incident would force the world to shift in a different direction. I reminded him of his unintended pun on the word "shift." The miners were on an unintended 69-day shift after all. We both laughed, which we don’t very often because I’m never sure if my take on the world and Karthik’s are correct, and so I don’t always participate in such philosophizing fully. This time, I do want to go along with Karthik entirely because I want him to be right so badly. Indeed, things seem to have got so out of control in terms of what our priorities ought to be that a corrective shift seems so badly needed.
In 2007 I had gone to Chile and had a wonderful time. After witnessing the recent miracle and triumph of the human spirit in that land, I have found a special niche in my heart for the little metal flag that my Chilean tour director gave me, and the slim copper bookmark displaying that rapier-thin, sliver of a country, which I use regularly. This winter when I wrap that cozy alpaca shawl I bought in Puerto Montt, Chile, I’ll feel extra warm and extra grateful to Chile for showing the world how we as humans with all our faults can come close to being perfect when the occasion calls for it . . . we just need to remember that we mustn't really wait for an occasion to strive to be "perfect."
Viva la Chile!
Ciao.
Ro.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Chicago, The Windy City, Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me, Peter Sagal
Hi,
My first time (9/8-9/10) in Chicago. Loved it. BTW, in case you didn't know, the reason for Chicago's other name being Windy City has to do with the its 1893 World's Fair. I had come to know this on NPR a few years back. Lest I offend my new friends I don't want to go into the details. Of course, Chicago is also known as the "city that works" and I think I can see why. Also, its public art is amazing.
Went to see the taping of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me!" on 9/9 at the Chase Auditorium. As per expectation, it was outrageous. Mayor Daley had just announced that he wouldn't be running for election again, and this gave the host Peter Sagal much opening fodder for the show.
Took a lot of photos and some test video on my new Smartphone (Dash 3G by HTC--a fab machine that streams all my audio, including from Youtube to my car radio! a feature important to me) and here are the stills (the amazing Lincoln Park Conservatory, the skyline from the tour boat in River Chicago, Millennium Park art work, and the zoo):
http://picasaweb.google.com/rohinir171/ChicagoSeptember8102010?feat=email#
And the very, very short videos (same thing as above):
1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XJ5bieHsHU
2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0U-r3ZZCwR8
3. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF28jdbX8_4
4. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXySoUS4oNU
5. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=448M5IOURHY
I have a few friends from the Midwest and so I have experienced the Midwestern hospitality first hand and when I was in Chicago my experience was no different. Of course, what they sell as panini bread in their restaurants is just the regular Italian bread. Sorry, I had to vent about this. My first brush with their helpfulness came when I felt lost on the subway and had to figure out quickly how to get to where I wanted to go. The help came in the form of Meghen, a young, ex-military employee, now making a new life for herself in Chicgao, her hometown. For my sake, she, actually, chose to get off at my stop and walk to her stop a few blocks away. That evening we met for dinner at Pasta Bowl near Lincoln Park, and which is where though my sandwich was good, the bread was really not Panini!
I stayed at the Chicago Getaway Hostel, conveniently located near some major attractions like the zoo and even the Loop. Normally, I like staying at B&B's but after doing some careful research based on certain criteria I had in mind, I booked a room at this hostel. It turned out to be a lively place with much ambiance and was abuzz with a lively and mostly young crowd. Free computers and free printing facilities, a parlor, big-screen TV, a large dining room, pool table, a large kitchen, a lovely lobby, a large paved backyard with tables and benches and the facility to store your luggage free after you check out made this hostel a real winner in my book.
It's not a ritzy place, but perfect for a bohemian like me. I had a private room with a private bath, etc. and an amazing view of the Chicago skyline, which is one of the pictures I've posted above. The large silhouettes on the wall of my Spartan room were unusual and caught my attention. On the wall were silhouettes of four men--three of them sporting the popular, mid-century Guerra hat and one a police officer's. The largest figure overlording the action evoked Alfred Hitchcock though the belly was not overly over sized, then there was a policeman in the background looking at what was going on, which was two other men were pouring a liquid into a manhole. It certainly looked like a crime scene and I thought I was on to something and therefore my guess that the large man was Hitchcock must have been. However, my new friend Meghan mentioned Al Capone and this is when I connected all the dots. The scene on the wall had to do with the glory days during Prohibition and the liquid being poured into the manhole was bootlegged liquor.
During my three-day stay, I met a couple of adventurous young women: Helen (her ancestors were Japanese) was an engineer in the Brazilian government and the Vanessa, who eventually, plans to become a mid-wife but was in town to interview for a job as a nanny to two small boys whose mother worked from home. Vanessa used to live in Columbus, Ohio.
I bought some orange juice from a store nearby and kept it in the fridge with my name on it. It came in handy.
The continental breakfast served by the hostel is adequate but there is no juice (though there were bananas, apples and oranges) or milk even for your coffee. Coffee by the way is excellent.
All in all, it was a memorable trip.
Later.
Ciao!
My first time (9/8-9/10) in Chicago. Loved it. BTW, in case you didn't know, the reason for Chicago's other name being Windy City has to do with the its 1893 World's Fair. I had come to know this on NPR a few years back. Lest I offend my new friends I don't want to go into the details. Of course, Chicago is also known as the "city that works" and I think I can see why. Also, its public art is amazing.
Went to see the taping of "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me!" on 9/9 at the Chase Auditorium. As per expectation, it was outrageous. Mayor Daley had just announced that he wouldn't be running for election again, and this gave the host Peter Sagal much opening fodder for the show.
Took a lot of photos and some test video on my new Smartphone (Dash 3G by HTC--a fab machine that streams all my audio, including from Youtube to my car radio! a feature important to me) and here are the stills (the amazing Lincoln Park Conservatory, the skyline from the tour boat in River Chicago, Millennium Park art work, and the zoo):
http://picasaweb.google.com/rohinir171/ChicagoSeptember8102010?feat=email#
And the very, very short videos (same thing as above):
1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XJ5bieHsHU
2. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0U-r3ZZCwR8
3. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF28jdbX8_4
4. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXySoUS4oNU
5. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=448M5IOURHY
I have a few friends from the Midwest and so I have experienced the Midwestern hospitality first hand and when I was in Chicago my experience was no different. Of course, what they sell as panini bread in their restaurants is just the regular Italian bread. Sorry, I had to vent about this. My first brush with their helpfulness came when I felt lost on the subway and had to figure out quickly how to get to where I wanted to go. The help came in the form of Meghen, a young, ex-military employee, now making a new life for herself in Chicgao, her hometown. For my sake, she, actually, chose to get off at my stop and walk to her stop a few blocks away. That evening we met for dinner at Pasta Bowl near Lincoln Park, and which is where though my sandwich was good, the bread was really not Panini!
I stayed at the Chicago Getaway Hostel, conveniently located near some major attractions like the zoo and even the Loop. Normally, I like staying at B&B's but after doing some careful research based on certain criteria I had in mind, I booked a room at this hostel. It turned out to be a lively place with much ambiance and was abuzz with a lively and mostly young crowd. Free computers and free printing facilities, a parlor, big-screen TV, a large dining room, pool table, a large kitchen, a lovely lobby, a large paved backyard with tables and benches and the facility to store your luggage free after you check out made this hostel a real winner in my book.
It's not a ritzy place, but perfect for a bohemian like me. I had a private room with a private bath, etc. and an amazing view of the Chicago skyline, which is one of the pictures I've posted above. The large silhouettes on the wall of my Spartan room were unusual and caught my attention. On the wall were silhouettes of four men--three of them sporting the popular, mid-century Guerra hat and one a police officer's. The largest figure overlording the action evoked Alfred Hitchcock though the belly was not overly over sized, then there was a policeman in the background looking at what was going on, which was two other men were pouring a liquid into a manhole. It certainly looked like a crime scene and I thought I was on to something and therefore my guess that the large man was Hitchcock must have been. However, my new friend Meghan mentioned Al Capone and this is when I connected all the dots. The scene on the wall had to do with the glory days during Prohibition and the liquid being poured into the manhole was bootlegged liquor.
During my three-day stay, I met a couple of adventurous young women: Helen (her ancestors were Japanese) was an engineer in the Brazilian government and the Vanessa, who eventually, plans to become a mid-wife but was in town to interview for a job as a nanny to two small boys whose mother worked from home. Vanessa used to live in Columbus, Ohio.
I bought some orange juice from a store nearby and kept it in the fridge with my name on it. It came in handy.
The continental breakfast served by the hostel is adequate but there is no juice (though there were bananas, apples and oranges) or milk even for your coffee. Coffee by the way is excellent.
All in all, it was a memorable trip.
Later.
Ciao!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Psychiatry's Reach and Scope, Mental Illness, Psychopharmacology
Recently, I read the following hard-hitting piece that touched a personal chord in me:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/25/magazine/25Memoir-t.html.
Subsequently, when I googled its author Dr. Daniel Carlat's name I came upon his blog: http://carlatpsychiatry.blogspot.com/.
While there, I added my own two cents' on the subject and here it is:
Dear Dr. Carlat,
Your succinct piece in the Times touched a personal chord for me. My mother had been depressed since her angioplastie (even this procedure was probably unnecessary!) in January 2006. A woman who was 24/7 active became 24/7 inactive! Indeed, she was also treated by psychiatrists.
A highly intelligent and strong-willed woman, recently, she stopped all medication, including for her heart and is doing much better. She has even begun eating much better. Up until recently she hardly ate and stayed in bed almost all the time.
A trained musician she was teaching tens of students but now, the only music she religiously listens to is mine every day at a set time. She's not normal yet, but since she stopped all medication, she certainly has come a long way and finally, as her daughter and caregiver, I'm beginning to feel hopeful. I've taken her up as a project and I'm beginning to see results. Thanks for your total honesty in talking about your profession.
With all due respect to my psychiatrist friends, I must confess that I didn’t think they could cure her (they had no idea of her belief system nor her upbringing, which in my opinion contribute much to how one deals with life’s traumas), and they didn’t. One of them (not my friend) came across as a real quack, in fact. I’m not sure if she was a psychiatrist or from one of those sub-professions.
I felt very sorry to read about your mother’s suicide.
Ro.
I am no expert on the subject, but I feel that particularly in mental illness, cure and treatment have to be highly individualized. This is what is working in my mother's case and in her case, the family's care and support trumped anything else available.
The gains for the family are untold although in the short run, the caregiver himself/herself could go insane. But if one hangs in there the rewards are multiple. It's amazing how for someone who is not known for her patience, this experience has taught me sensitivity and has fulfilled my own need to serve. Good deed came seeking me instead of the other way round.
Ciao!
Ro.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/25/magazine/25Memoir-t.html.
Subsequently, when I googled its author Dr. Daniel Carlat's name I came upon his blog: http://carlatpsychiatry.blogspot.com/.
While there, I added my own two cents' on the subject and here it is:
Dear Dr. Carlat,
Your succinct piece in the Times touched a personal chord for me. My mother had been depressed since her angioplastie (even this procedure was probably unnecessary!) in January 2006. A woman who was 24/7 active became 24/7 inactive! Indeed, she was also treated by psychiatrists.
A highly intelligent and strong-willed woman, recently, she stopped all medication, including for her heart and is doing much better. She has even begun eating much better. Up until recently she hardly ate and stayed in bed almost all the time.
A trained musician she was teaching tens of students but now, the only music she religiously listens to is mine every day at a set time. She's not normal yet, but since she stopped all medication, she certainly has come a long way and finally, as her daughter and caregiver, I'm beginning to feel hopeful. I've taken her up as a project and I'm beginning to see results. Thanks for your total honesty in talking about your profession.
With all due respect to my psychiatrist friends, I must confess that I didn’t think they could cure her (they had no idea of her belief system nor her upbringing, which in my opinion contribute much to how one deals with life’s traumas), and they didn’t. One of them (not my friend) came across as a real quack, in fact. I’m not sure if she was a psychiatrist or from one of those sub-professions.
I felt very sorry to read about your mother’s suicide.
Ro.
I am no expert on the subject, but I feel that particularly in mental illness, cure and treatment have to be highly individualized. This is what is working in my mother's case and in her case, the family's care and support trumped anything else available.
The gains for the family are untold although in the short run, the caregiver himself/herself could go insane. But if one hangs in there the rewards are multiple. It's amazing how for someone who is not known for her patience, this experience has taught me sensitivity and has fulfilled my own need to serve. Good deed came seeking me instead of the other way round.
Ciao!
Ro.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Healthy Eating, Soul Food, First Lady Michelle Obama, Jane Brody
Hi,
Based on my family's health history, I must be going to the doctor every other day to make sure all my vitals are okay and that I am not dying. Then again, the crazy person that I am, I don't although in 2008 I was forced to because, while in the garden trying to clear a thicket, I was infected with I don't know what and the pathetic condition of my skin (lots of centipede-like furrows all over my arms and legs) scared the hell out of me. The doctor thought it was poison ivy, which of course was treatable. But since I rarely go to a doctor I decided to have a few other tests run on me. A big mistake! My cholesterol was messed up. Both my LDL and HDL had headed in the wrong direction. When I returned home, I was miserable. It was if I had to pretty much stop eating. I got depressed and broke down. I had always watched my weight but lately I went just by my clothing size (6). It so happened that just then the clothiers had expanded the size. In other words, the label might say 6 but the actual size was much larger. This meant I had been overeating and the wrong kind of foods as well. Because it was August and thus the throes of summer I had really been indulging. For instance, for nearly two weeks just before I went to the doctor, I had been bingeing on cheese, eggs and ice cream. Yes, go figure as they say on Mars!
So now my LDL and HDL readings turned my whole life upside down. I had been exercising regularly but this also had made me a bit cocky about my eating habits. Pecan pies had begun to appear in my cabinet more often now. After my visit to the doctor's all this had to stop, of course. The first thing I was going to do was, increase the fiber content in my diet as per my research on the subject. This meant that my favorite cereal from Trader Joe's, the almond, cashew loaded granola had to be the first item to be replaced. Luckily I found a high fiber cereal which while could not hold a candle to my bowl of granola was still definitely the best substitute under the circumstances. Slowly I found a happy medium and also ran into the owner of a high impact gym in town as opposed to the low impact one I was going to till then.
Now, two years later, my clothes are loose on me (I even own a few size 4's; okay these may in reality be a real size 6), I have returned to my almond and cashew-loaded cereal 1/2 cup equals 160 calories; with milk another eighty calories), have a wedge of Toblerone (140 calories worth as opposed to two Hersey almond or caramel kisses from before worth a mere 50 calories; I plan to go back to the kisses) for dessert and of course, a couple of all natural cookies (no more than a total of a 150 calories) and six ounces of OJ before bed time so I can sleep through the night. My lunch is a vegetarian salmagundi sprinkled with dried cranberries and some walnuts followed a couple of sesame balls, a delectable dessert. A Nonni’s biscotti is a must with my afternoon coffee. In-between snacking includes a banana, orange and sometimes a yam and once in a while a few peanuts. Dinner is cooked cracked wheat and some grain-based or vegetable-based side dish topped with home made skim milk yogurt.
I know that some extremely health-conscious folks will not approve of the desserts in my diet but they are for my soul. If my soul is not happy, I'm not happy and I make the people around me also unhappy. Been there, done that and it was not pretty. I used to be obsessive and self-absorbed.
Healthy eating alone can go only so far. As long as I don't overindulge, I should continue to be healthy. Knock on wood. Moreover, what exactly is the point of hitting the gym six days a week at 6 a.m. and getting on the elliptical and the treadmill for half hour followed by another fifteen minutes of resistance exercises if I can't eat my favorite foods? This is my whole motivation behind my regular gymming. Even health experts like Jane Brody of the New York Times advise people not to let go of their indulgences. Apparently, she loves ice cream and she has it every day. I know that first Lady Michelle Obama will not approve of this, but much as I admire her, this is one area where I'm not going to listen to the First Lady:)
All right, enough on this subject for now.
Ciao!
Ro.
Based on my family's health history, I must be going to the doctor every other day to make sure all my vitals are okay and that I am not dying. Then again, the crazy person that I am, I don't although in 2008 I was forced to because, while in the garden trying to clear a thicket, I was infected with I don't know what and the pathetic condition of my skin (lots of centipede-like furrows all over my arms and legs) scared the hell out of me. The doctor thought it was poison ivy, which of course was treatable. But since I rarely go to a doctor I decided to have a few other tests run on me. A big mistake! My cholesterol was messed up. Both my LDL and HDL had headed in the wrong direction. When I returned home, I was miserable. It was if I had to pretty much stop eating. I got depressed and broke down. I had always watched my weight but lately I went just by my clothing size (6). It so happened that just then the clothiers had expanded the size. In other words, the label might say 6 but the actual size was much larger. This meant I had been overeating and the wrong kind of foods as well. Because it was August and thus the throes of summer I had really been indulging. For instance, for nearly two weeks just before I went to the doctor, I had been bingeing on cheese, eggs and ice cream. Yes, go figure as they say on Mars!
So now my LDL and HDL readings turned my whole life upside down. I had been exercising regularly but this also had made me a bit cocky about my eating habits. Pecan pies had begun to appear in my cabinet more often now. After my visit to the doctor's all this had to stop, of course. The first thing I was going to do was, increase the fiber content in my diet as per my research on the subject. This meant that my favorite cereal from Trader Joe's, the almond, cashew loaded granola had to be the first item to be replaced. Luckily I found a high fiber cereal which while could not hold a candle to my bowl of granola was still definitely the best substitute under the circumstances. Slowly I found a happy medium and also ran into the owner of a high impact gym in town as opposed to the low impact one I was going to till then.
Now, two years later, my clothes are loose on me (I even own a few size 4's; okay these may in reality be a real size 6), I have returned to my almond and cashew-loaded cereal 1/2 cup equals 160 calories; with milk another eighty calories), have a wedge of Toblerone (140 calories worth as opposed to two Hersey almond or caramel kisses from before worth a mere 50 calories; I plan to go back to the kisses) for dessert and of course, a couple of all natural cookies (no more than a total of a 150 calories) and six ounces of OJ before bed time so I can sleep through the night. My lunch is a vegetarian salmagundi sprinkled with dried cranberries and some walnuts followed a couple of sesame balls, a delectable dessert. A Nonni’s biscotti is a must with my afternoon coffee. In-between snacking includes a banana, orange and sometimes a yam and once in a while a few peanuts. Dinner is cooked cracked wheat and some grain-based or vegetable-based side dish topped with home made skim milk yogurt.
I know that some extremely health-conscious folks will not approve of the desserts in my diet but they are for my soul. If my soul is not happy, I'm not happy and I make the people around me also unhappy. Been there, done that and it was not pretty. I used to be obsessive and self-absorbed.
Healthy eating alone can go only so far. As long as I don't overindulge, I should continue to be healthy. Knock on wood. Moreover, what exactly is the point of hitting the gym six days a week at 6 a.m. and getting on the elliptical and the treadmill for half hour followed by another fifteen minutes of resistance exercises if I can't eat my favorite foods? This is my whole motivation behind my regular gymming. Even health experts like Jane Brody of the New York Times advise people not to let go of their indulgences. Apparently, she loves ice cream and she has it every day. I know that first Lady Michelle Obama will not approve of this, but much as I admire her, this is one area where I'm not going to listen to the First Lady:)
All right, enough on this subject for now.
Ciao!
Ro.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Some of my essays. columns and articles from a bunch of other sources
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/02/dreams.htm (Dreams)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/07/rationality-and-romance.htm (Rationality and Romance)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/06/juggling.htm (Juggling)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/05/looks.htm (Looks)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/03/dowry-and-other-issues.htm (Dowry and other issues)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/09/communication.htm (Communication)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/06/rab-se-bhi-sona-ishq.htm (B’s letter)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/older-woman-younger-man.htm (Older woman younger man)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/10/i-would-have-preferred-love-marriage.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/05/jim-and-i.htm (A love story)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/08/a-spicy-exchange.htm (A playboy)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/a-possessive-boyfriend.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/07/introduction.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/01/should-i-call-it-quits.htm (A dilemma)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/10/infidelity.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/07/the-ageless-heart-and-life-with-an-alcoholic-husband.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/12/women-and-marriage.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/11/does-he-or-doesn-t-he.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/10/youthful-indiscretions.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/the-second-time-around.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/love-bah-humbug-oh-yeah.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/08/does-everybody-want-freedom.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/teenager-versus-parent.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/11/oh-that-cussed-four-letter-word.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/07/difficult-hubby.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/04/i-maa-tujhe-salaam-i.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/03/to-love-or-not-to-love.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/valentine-s-day-special-a-potpourri.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/perfect-matches.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/11/are-we-too-self-absorbed.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/08/cyberlove.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/discovering-madras.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2005/09/sheer-madness.htm (Sheer Madness)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2005/07/parent-as-riverbank.htm (Parent as Riverbank)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/10/a-trilogy.htm (The Trilogy)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/09/putting-humpty-dumpty-back-together-again.htm (Short Story)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/new-york-indians.htm (New York Indians)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/05/motherhood-revisited.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/it-s-the-small-gestures.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/thanks-but-no-thanks-i-m-no-glutton.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/chat-room-holidays.htm
http://ihi.sulekha.com/blog/post/2006/11/india-s-maps-2.htm (About Walmart’s entry into India)
http://business.rediff.com/news/2000/dec/19rohini.htm (Brave New World)
http://business.rediff.com/news/2000/dec/19rohini.htm (Living in Multiple Worlds)
http://www.rediff.com/us/2000/aug/10us.htm (The frothies and me)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jul/27us2.htm (All About Choices)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jul/11us2.htm (America’s 224th Birthday)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jun/13us2.htm (The Indian-American Pie)
http://im.rediff.com/news/2000/oct/06spec.htm (Am American Ramlila)
http://imworld.rediff.com/us/2000/sep/19us.htm (Getting the message across)
http://www.rediff.com/us/2000/jul/06us.htm (When Indian Women Meet Across Oceans)
http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1P1-79283588.html (Dreams Deferred: Paid Article)
http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P1-79280162.html (India Abroad: Assimilation Redux)
plus
A Daughter’s Welcome Duty
By
Rohini B. Ramanathan
May, 19, 1991
The New York Times
Her normally high yet stable blood pressure soared a bit, and the symptoms were not good. Her head hurt, she had no appetite, the mouth felt dry, the body weak. She panicked, and remembered how her own mother, who also suffered from hypertension and died of a heart attack, had her first stroke around age 55, now her own age. I took her blood pressure. It was indeed high. I drove her to the doctor. He examined her, prescribing stronger medication and rest.
A proud woman, my mother, in her moment of anguish, blurted out how grateful she was with her children. She further added, "Who else but with your children can you ask at liberty to take care of you when you get sick?" I, an advocate of the merits of an extended family outweighing the mutual adjustments the members have to make, was elated by this comment. For a woman who never felt any vulnerability that she could not handle herself, finding that we all need one another must have been hard.
In the last five years, I had done everything I could to prove that I valued the idea of my parents' living with me after retirement for no other reason but to be together as a family. I expressed this sentiment in every letter I wrote to them, with strong arguments upholding the logic behind such togetherness. The tribal being in me reiterated that families ought to live together. This is the way God meant it, I would insist. Modern lifestyles and ways of thinking, I believe, interfere with this yearning to stay together as family.
As part of my attempt to convince my parents that my desire to have them live with me was not for the sake of baby-sitting, I hired a full-time housekeeper who took care of the house, cooked and cared for my boy while I was out working. My housekeeper tactic dispelled any doubts my parents might have had. Moreover, my children are 8 and 6 now, in school till 3 in the afternoon, and I have started working from home.
Then, as part of the same process of convincing them how important it was for me to have them with me, I responded to their need to pursue their interests. Dad, a young 58-year-old, a retired comptroller, enjoyed accounting. I took him to job interviews, and now he is on his second career. Mom, with her music education background, needed an outlet, too, and today she is a music teacher. I thought, now I had earned the privilege of keeping them with me.
I had the added responsibility of making them feel at home in a foreign land, much as they praised this land of opportunities. I even expanded the house to accommodate their more peculiar needs, and threw in a few details that bore the flavor of their native surroundings.
No doubt, all these reminders make them happy, and at home. Yet, the emotional need to be together as an extended family was never admitted. For me, declarations of love are important. For all the love and affection they showered on their grandchildren, my children, they refused to admit any emotional ties to them.
I often wondered if it was my persuasive powers only that made them stay on. However, I never wanted to find out. But yesterday, Mom said, "Who else do I have the privilege to ask to take care of me when I am sick?" She is right. It is a daughter's privilege to take care of her parents, and I was finally awarded this privilege.
The End
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/07/rationality-and-romance.htm (Rationality and Romance)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/06/juggling.htm (Juggling)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/05/looks.htm (Looks)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/03/dowry-and-other-issues.htm (Dowry and other issues)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/09/communication.htm (Communication)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/06/rab-se-bhi-sona-ishq.htm (B’s letter)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/older-woman-younger-man.htm (Older woman younger man)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/10/i-would-have-preferred-love-marriage.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/05/jim-and-i.htm (A love story)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/08/a-spicy-exchange.htm (A playboy)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/a-possessive-boyfriend.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/07/introduction.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/01/should-i-call-it-quits.htm (A dilemma)
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/10/infidelity.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/07/the-ageless-heart-and-life-with-an-alcoholic-husband.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/12/women-and-marriage.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/11/does-he-or-doesn-t-he.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/10/youthful-indiscretions.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/the-second-time-around.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/love-bah-humbug-oh-yeah.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/08/does-everybody-want-freedom.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/teenager-versus-parent.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/11/oh-that-cussed-four-letter-word.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/07/difficult-hubby.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/04/i-maa-tujhe-salaam-i.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/03/to-love-or-not-to-love.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/valentine-s-day-special-a-potpourri.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/12/perfect-matches.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/11/are-we-too-self-absorbed.htm
http://doc-dot-ro.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/08/cyberlove.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/discovering-madras.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2005/09/sheer-madness.htm (Sheer Madness)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2005/07/parent-as-riverbank.htm (Parent as Riverbank)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/10/a-trilogy.htm (The Trilogy)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2001/09/putting-humpty-dumpty-back-together-again.htm (Short Story)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/09/new-york-indians.htm (New York Indians)
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/1999/05/motherhood-revisited.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/it-s-the-small-gestures.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/thanks-but-no-thanks-i-m-no-glutton.htm
http://rohini-ramanathan.sulekha.com/blog/post/2000/02/chat-room-holidays.htm
http://ihi.sulekha.com/blog/post/2006/11/india-s-maps-2.htm (About Walmart’s entry into India)
http://business.rediff.com/news/2000/dec/19rohini.htm (Brave New World)
http://business.rediff.com/news/2000/dec/19rohini.htm (Living in Multiple Worlds)
http://www.rediff.com/us/2000/aug/10us.htm (The frothies and me)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jul/27us2.htm (All About Choices)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jul/11us2.htm (America’s 224th Birthday)
http://indiaabroad.com/us/2000/jun/13us2.htm (The Indian-American Pie)
http://im.rediff.com/news/2000/oct/06spec.htm (Am American Ramlila)
http://imworld.rediff.com/us/2000/sep/19us.htm (Getting the message across)
http://www.rediff.com/us/2000/jul/06us.htm (When Indian Women Meet Across Oceans)
http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1P1-79283588.html (Dreams Deferred: Paid Article)
http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P1-79280162.html (India Abroad: Assimilation Redux)
plus
A Daughter’s Welcome Duty
By
Rohini B. Ramanathan
May, 19, 1991
The New York Times
Her normally high yet stable blood pressure soared a bit, and the symptoms were not good. Her head hurt, she had no appetite, the mouth felt dry, the body weak. She panicked, and remembered how her own mother, who also suffered from hypertension and died of a heart attack, had her first stroke around age 55, now her own age. I took her blood pressure. It was indeed high. I drove her to the doctor. He examined her, prescribing stronger medication and rest.
A proud woman, my mother, in her moment of anguish, blurted out how grateful she was with her children. She further added, "Who else but with your children can you ask at liberty to take care of you when you get sick?" I, an advocate of the merits of an extended family outweighing the mutual adjustments the members have to make, was elated by this comment. For a woman who never felt any vulnerability that she could not handle herself, finding that we all need one another must have been hard.
In the last five years, I had done everything I could to prove that I valued the idea of my parents' living with me after retirement for no other reason but to be together as a family. I expressed this sentiment in every letter I wrote to them, with strong arguments upholding the logic behind such togetherness. The tribal being in me reiterated that families ought to live together. This is the way God meant it, I would insist. Modern lifestyles and ways of thinking, I believe, interfere with this yearning to stay together as family.
As part of my attempt to convince my parents that my desire to have them live with me was not for the sake of baby-sitting, I hired a full-time housekeeper who took care of the house, cooked and cared for my boy while I was out working. My housekeeper tactic dispelled any doubts my parents might have had. Moreover, my children are 8 and 6 now, in school till 3 in the afternoon, and I have started working from home.
Then, as part of the same process of convincing them how important it was for me to have them with me, I responded to their need to pursue their interests. Dad, a young 58-year-old, a retired comptroller, enjoyed accounting. I took him to job interviews, and now he is on his second career. Mom, with her music education background, needed an outlet, too, and today she is a music teacher. I thought, now I had earned the privilege of keeping them with me.
I had the added responsibility of making them feel at home in a foreign land, much as they praised this land of opportunities. I even expanded the house to accommodate their more peculiar needs, and threw in a few details that bore the flavor of their native surroundings.
No doubt, all these reminders make them happy, and at home. Yet, the emotional need to be together as an extended family was never admitted. For me, declarations of love are important. For all the love and affection they showered on their grandchildren, my children, they refused to admit any emotional ties to them.
I often wondered if it was my persuasive powers only that made them stay on. However, I never wanted to find out. But yesterday, Mom said, "Who else do I have the privilege to ask to take care of me when I am sick?" She is right. It is a daughter's privilege to take care of her parents, and I was finally awarded this privilege.
The End
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Bermuda Cruise from New York, NY.
I haven't blogged in a long time! The last time was September 2009. Much happened during this period, then again, not so much! November 21 was a particularly very difficult day. Here is a piece I wrote about the day which ultimately had happy ending:
Going for God’s Jugular!
By
Rohini B. Ramanathan
It was 1 a.m. Saturday, November 21, 2009. The police were attending to Dad who had stopped breathing. Presumably, the ambulance was on its way and here I was in the den praying so hard, away from all the action, that it felt like an out-of-body experience.
Apparently, a surgeon is not allowed to operate on his/her own child because the relationship is too close for comfort and objective decision-making. This is precisely why, once help arrived, I stayed away from my father, his 125-pound, 79-year-old, 5’ 7’’frame lying ramrod-like on his bed, snoring loudly but not responding to anyone’s touch or voice. His motionless eyes wide open and his normally light skin now pale. I had never seen Dad like this. I left the room and let my husband administer first aid to him, which in his case meant feeding him something sweet.
Though very youthful in spirit, among the many ailments Dad is afflicted with, he is also a diabetic whose sugar level now and then, inexplicably drops. Usually, on his own, he takes care of this situation by eating a snack or drinking some apple juice or both and adjusting his meal time if necessary and of course injecting himself with appropriate doses of insulin when the sugar level goes way up. This morning things must have spiraled out of control too rapidly and too unexpectedly. All Dad had been able to do was remove most of his clothing---which too he does as the low blood sugar makes him sweat like a can of chilled beer---but not have enough energy to reach for the juice or candy nearby.
Though I don’t fully fathom the concept of God yet, still praying comes easily to me. This morning, I slipped into my habit with the intensity that was equivalent to shaking up God to his core, thus endangering His own life, perhaps. Later, while in the ER, when I learned that Dad was recovering, I recalled the fervor of my prayer earlier and my mental image reflected my going for God’s jugular literally, and He out of fear for His own life, granting me my wish and letting my father live. I let out a muffled laugh at this imagery of my interaction with the Almighty. The doctor said that had we waited even a few more minutes, Dad would have gone into a coma. His sugar level reading of 21 was way below the minimum needed to survive.
In the last year alone, my father had been admitted to the hospital twice for low blood sugar and once for heart attack. The first time his hypoglycemia had knocked him down unconscious on the shower floor and nearly forty minutes later, my husband accidentally discovered him. The second time, in the middle of the night when my mother, who prefers sleeping by alone, accidentally heard him making some funny sounds in his room and got help. His heart attack revealed itself in Dad’s face turning pale, and getting out of shape. Luckily, I happened to be around when this happened. Seeing his facial changes, I felt that something was wrong and rushed him to Emergency.
At 1 a.m., Saturday, it was my second son’s turn to save my father’s life. My son had trouble falling asleep because of a sawing sound he heard. Tracing the sound to my father’s room, a whole floor away, and sensing that, though odd-sounding, it was probably a snore, yet wanting to make sure, he lept to his feet and sprinted toward my father’s room. Indeed, the sawing sound turned out to be heavy snoring by my father. But seeing the odd positioning of his grandfather’s half-naked body, my son tried waking him up. There was no response. Feeling disturbed, my son came into our room and woke us up.
Growing up, I had heard how when my maternal grandfather was 36, his wife, my grandmother had harnessed the power of prayer to save his life from tuberculosis. Ultimately, he lived to be 69 and died as a result of a fall. Many years later, grandmother’s prayer also helped her younger son recover fully from a major accident and her other son from a heart attack he suffered at age 36. Only these successes were touted.
After grandmother died, I relied on my mother’s connection to the Almighty. It was her job to pray when things got tough for me. It was my conviction that her prayer carried more power than my own. Interestingly, neither hers nor my grandmother’s prayers were an emotional appeal to the Almighty. They were more on the lines of, "Hey, God, it’s your job to protect us, so do it right." This was the summum bonum of their appeal. In return they promised the Almighty offerings made by their own hands with the utmost devotion.
For the last four years, my mother has been afflicted with post-coronary angioplasty depression and no one has been able to diagnose why her condition---not totally an uncommon phenomenon---is lasting this long in her. A woman who went from being 24/7 active to 24/7 inactive, she is not someone the family recognizes anymore. I had cruised through life thinking it was really not necessary to pray, as it was God’s job to protect us and keep us sane. But, now, on Saturday, my father teetering on the verge of a coma, all I knew was to appeal to God to spare my Dad’s life.
He did . . . for now. How many more times my prayer will work is anybody’s guess. There is really no palatable way to bid goodbye to your loved ones when the final hour of their life arrives. Yet, wanting to make it linger till it’s the "right" time to see them leave is all so real. Raised in a non-dual way of thinking (advaita) family, I have been taught repeatedly that the only way to be sorrow-free is to accept life as "maya," an illusion. Oh, sure, yeah, why not? Unable to follow this advice, often, selfishly, I wish that maybe I should leave this earth before my loved ones.
The first time I had to attend to my father was in January 2001. It was the dead of winter and I flew to Columbus, Ohio, Dad’s domicile at the time. He had gone through a quintuple bypass heart surgery. Because my sister, Dad’s caregiver at the time, was traveling, I stayed on for a week in Columbus and considered attending to my father a privilege. Some infection had chewed up a quarter of his thigh. I cringed and could not bear to see it exposed even for a second. A nurse came in every day to clean his sore, treat it and bandage it.
Dad had debated a great deal before he chose to go in for the bypass. The risk of dying was high. But so were the chances of living. So, my advice to him from New York was, "go for it, Dad." Still, the risk involved troubled me. At times like this I look for signs to make me feel better about what is troubling me. That morning this sign came in the form of a male customer at the local farm market I had gone to. For no apparent reason, the man informed the cashier he was 82. Irrational as it may sound, I took this to mean that my Dad too would live to be at least 82. On Christmas Day he’ll turn 80.
A retired Indian government official, Dad is a survivor. Having been raised by a mother widowed at a very young age, and dad himself was just three-and-a-half years old, he had probably built an armor around him and no matter how bad things get, his spirit, his unusual sense of humor and hope rarely fade. This same survival spirit must have pried him out of death’s jaws each time he was admitted to ER in the last few years.
After the November 21 incident, my sister suggested that we admit our parents in an assisted living place so we didn’t have to worry about close calls anymore. I countered, "Most folks who live in these homes ideally want to live with family." I know for a fact that my parents would like to live with their daughters.
Though years ago, when they were in good health, I had fantasized taking care of them in their old age, in reality, when the rubber met the road, the hardship of this responsibility trumped everything else. I communicated this to them. So has my sister. Despite this confession, neither of my parents really wants to live any place else other than their daughters’ homes in the company of their children and grandchildren. They did try though to give us a break. In 2008, they went to back to India to spend at least a few months there and see if this arrangement would work in the long run as well. Within two months they returned. Annoyed as I felt for not getting a longer break, I made the best of the situation and went on. Right now, my mother lives with my sister and my Dad with me in New York. But he prefers Dallas during New York’s winter. So, if he feels up to it, health permitting, he will go back to Dallas soon and will return to New York in March, his frail body getting frailer by the day. As for Mom, she prefers Dallas overall. Sometimes I take this personally. Maybe she likes my sister more than she likes me although every day, right on the dot at 6 p.m. she phones me to sing for her. We are a musical family with all the females trained in music.
Having to play parent to my parents, I wonder if this is why humans have children: to take care of the parents in old age and sickness. Is this why my parents even provided music lessons for me so I could sing to my mother while nothing else gave her succor? These mean thoughts take a vacation when some friends of mine whose parents live in far away lands of their origin envy me for being able to take care of my parents in their hour of need.
All said and done, honestly, after the latest November 21 close call, I really can’t imagine my parents living any place but at their daughters.’ Whenever things get rough, I’ll just keep going for God’s jugular.
Going for God’s Jugular!
By
Rohini B. Ramanathan
It was 1 a.m. Saturday, November 21, 2009. The police were attending to Dad who had stopped breathing. Presumably, the ambulance was on its way and here I was in the den praying so hard, away from all the action, that it felt like an out-of-body experience.
Apparently, a surgeon is not allowed to operate on his/her own child because the relationship is too close for comfort and objective decision-making. This is precisely why, once help arrived, I stayed away from my father, his 125-pound, 79-year-old, 5’ 7’’frame lying ramrod-like on his bed, snoring loudly but not responding to anyone’s touch or voice. His motionless eyes wide open and his normally light skin now pale. I had never seen Dad like this. I left the room and let my husband administer first aid to him, which in his case meant feeding him something sweet.
Though very youthful in spirit, among the many ailments Dad is afflicted with, he is also a diabetic whose sugar level now and then, inexplicably drops. Usually, on his own, he takes care of this situation by eating a snack or drinking some apple juice or both and adjusting his meal time if necessary and of course injecting himself with appropriate doses of insulin when the sugar level goes way up. This morning things must have spiraled out of control too rapidly and too unexpectedly. All Dad had been able to do was remove most of his clothing---which too he does as the low blood sugar makes him sweat like a can of chilled beer---but not have enough energy to reach for the juice or candy nearby.
Though I don’t fully fathom the concept of God yet, still praying comes easily to me. This morning, I slipped into my habit with the intensity that was equivalent to shaking up God to his core, thus endangering His own life, perhaps. Later, while in the ER, when I learned that Dad was recovering, I recalled the fervor of my prayer earlier and my mental image reflected my going for God’s jugular literally, and He out of fear for His own life, granting me my wish and letting my father live. I let out a muffled laugh at this imagery of my interaction with the Almighty. The doctor said that had we waited even a few more minutes, Dad would have gone into a coma. His sugar level reading of 21 was way below the minimum needed to survive.
In the last year alone, my father had been admitted to the hospital twice for low blood sugar and once for heart attack. The first time his hypoglycemia had knocked him down unconscious on the shower floor and nearly forty minutes later, my husband accidentally discovered him. The second time, in the middle of the night when my mother, who prefers sleeping by alone, accidentally heard him making some funny sounds in his room and got help. His heart attack revealed itself in Dad’s face turning pale, and getting out of shape. Luckily, I happened to be around when this happened. Seeing his facial changes, I felt that something was wrong and rushed him to Emergency.
At 1 a.m., Saturday, it was my second son’s turn to save my father’s life. My son had trouble falling asleep because of a sawing sound he heard. Tracing the sound to my father’s room, a whole floor away, and sensing that, though odd-sounding, it was probably a snore, yet wanting to make sure, he lept to his feet and sprinted toward my father’s room. Indeed, the sawing sound turned out to be heavy snoring by my father. But seeing the odd positioning of his grandfather’s half-naked body, my son tried waking him up. There was no response. Feeling disturbed, my son came into our room and woke us up.
Growing up, I had heard how when my maternal grandfather was 36, his wife, my grandmother had harnessed the power of prayer to save his life from tuberculosis. Ultimately, he lived to be 69 and died as a result of a fall. Many years later, grandmother’s prayer also helped her younger son recover fully from a major accident and her other son from a heart attack he suffered at age 36. Only these successes were touted.
After grandmother died, I relied on my mother’s connection to the Almighty. It was her job to pray when things got tough for me. It was my conviction that her prayer carried more power than my own. Interestingly, neither hers nor my grandmother’s prayers were an emotional appeal to the Almighty. They were more on the lines of, "Hey, God, it’s your job to protect us, so do it right." This was the summum bonum of their appeal. In return they promised the Almighty offerings made by their own hands with the utmost devotion.
For the last four years, my mother has been afflicted with post-coronary angioplasty depression and no one has been able to diagnose why her condition---not totally an uncommon phenomenon---is lasting this long in her. A woman who went from being 24/7 active to 24/7 inactive, she is not someone the family recognizes anymore. I had cruised through life thinking it was really not necessary to pray, as it was God’s job to protect us and keep us sane. But, now, on Saturday, my father teetering on the verge of a coma, all I knew was to appeal to God to spare my Dad’s life.
He did . . . for now. How many more times my prayer will work is anybody’s guess. There is really no palatable way to bid goodbye to your loved ones when the final hour of their life arrives. Yet, wanting to make it linger till it’s the "right" time to see them leave is all so real. Raised in a non-dual way of thinking (advaita) family, I have been taught repeatedly that the only way to be sorrow-free is to accept life as "maya," an illusion. Oh, sure, yeah, why not? Unable to follow this advice, often, selfishly, I wish that maybe I should leave this earth before my loved ones.
Fierce debate on medical coverage is raging all around us. Some feel strongly that it is just not worth it to prolong a very sick person’s life. On Saturday, the attending doctor in the ER had declared my father to be "very sick," too. But twenty hours later, seeing Dad regain consciousness, and, then, witnessing his love for life---once he became conscious, he gestured feebly to learn if he had had his scheduled dialysis yet---personally, I am glad that his life was deemed worthy of being preserved though he was "very sick."
The first time I had to attend to my father was in January 2001. It was the dead of winter and I flew to Columbus, Ohio, Dad’s domicile at the time. He had gone through a quintuple bypass heart surgery. Because my sister, Dad’s caregiver at the time, was traveling, I stayed on for a week in Columbus and considered attending to my father a privilege. Some infection had chewed up a quarter of his thigh. I cringed and could not bear to see it exposed even for a second. A nurse came in every day to clean his sore, treat it and bandage it.
Dad had debated a great deal before he chose to go in for the bypass. The risk of dying was high. But so were the chances of living. So, my advice to him from New York was, "go for it, Dad." Still, the risk involved troubled me. At times like this I look for signs to make me feel better about what is troubling me. That morning this sign came in the form of a male customer at the local farm market I had gone to. For no apparent reason, the man informed the cashier he was 82. Irrational as it may sound, I took this to mean that my Dad too would live to be at least 82. On Christmas Day he’ll turn 80.
A retired Indian government official, Dad is a survivor. Having been raised by a mother widowed at a very young age, and dad himself was just three-and-a-half years old, he had probably built an armor around him and no matter how bad things get, his spirit, his unusual sense of humor and hope rarely fade. This same survival spirit must have pried him out of death’s jaws each time he was admitted to ER in the last few years.
Taking care of him after his heart surgery was a novel experience and hence fun. Over the years, however, as more things went wrong with him, the responsibility of having to be more attentive to his needs began to weigh me down. Two years ago, we learned that he had to go in for dialysis three times a week to stay alive and last year, a pacemaker was installed in his chest. His diet also has to be monitored carefully and mom, of course, walked away from cooking and her other worldly responsibilities four years ago. My sister, who lives in Dallas, TX now, felt no differently either than I did about our uninvited, uncommon, unglamorous new role: a parent to our parents. However, focusing on the right thing to do under the circumstances, we decided that we would just "accept" our lot, and take turns.
After the November 21 incident, my sister suggested that we admit our parents in an assisted living place so we didn’t have to worry about close calls anymore. I countered, "Most folks who live in these homes ideally want to live with family." I know for a fact that my parents would like to live with their daughters.
Though years ago, when they were in good health, I had fantasized taking care of them in their old age, in reality, when the rubber met the road, the hardship of this responsibility trumped everything else. I communicated this to them. So has my sister. Despite this confession, neither of my parents really wants to live any place else other than their daughters’ homes in the company of their children and grandchildren. They did try though to give us a break. In 2008, they went to back to India to spend at least a few months there and see if this arrangement would work in the long run as well. Within two months they returned. Annoyed as I felt for not getting a longer break, I made the best of the situation and went on. Right now, my mother lives with my sister and my Dad with me in New York. But he prefers Dallas during New York’s winter. So, if he feels up to it, health permitting, he will go back to Dallas soon and will return to New York in March, his frail body getting frailer by the day. As for Mom, she prefers Dallas overall. Sometimes I take this personally. Maybe she likes my sister more than she likes me although every day, right on the dot at 6 p.m. she phones me to sing for her. We are a musical family with all the females trained in music.
Having to play parent to my parents, I wonder if this is why humans have children: to take care of the parents in old age and sickness. Is this why my parents even provided music lessons for me so I could sing to my mother while nothing else gave her succor? These mean thoughts take a vacation when some friends of mine whose parents live in far away lands of their origin envy me for being able to take care of my parents in their hour of need.
All said and done, honestly, after the latest November 21 close call, I really can’t imagine my parents living any place but at their daughters.’ Whenever things get rough, I’ll just keep going for God’s jugular.
End.
October 25-November 1: B and I took a cruise (2nd time out of the city; last time was to the southern Caribbean) out of Manhattan to Bermuda (our second trip to paradise). http://www.youtube.com/ and once there, searching for rbrimages Bermuda brings up the nine videos of the trip ( a total of about 80 minutes). The cabin with a balcony on deck no. 10 on NCL Dawn was worth ever extra penny.
Bermuda video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e19S4Rlz9VY (Part 1)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkhP6VH2u98 (Part 2)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aoa9CHLHRXk Part 3)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-2ZVH0QTVA (Part 4)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0AF71hpKoY (Part 5)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWf282KGR6k (Part 6)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5M3dDPmPNZQ (Part 7)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGUIYM9bQOE (Part 8)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDXykT6TP0Q (Part 9)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e19S4Rlz9VY (Part 1)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkhP6VH2u98 (Part 2)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aoa9CHLHRXk Part 3)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D-2ZVH0QTVA (Part 4)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0AF71hpKoY (Part 5)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yWf282KGR6k (Part 6)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5M3dDPmPNZQ (Part 7)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGUIYM9bQOE (Part 8)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDXykT6TP0Q (Part 9)
Winter was bitter yet here is a memorable, heart warming, (herat breaking?) scene (a must see) on my backyard deck: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zt78B9RMhmM.
Moving on to January, bitterness in the air continued. February was brutal. My first Feb. in the U.S. in a long time. Last year we were tracing the pharaohs' footsteps in Giza. The year before that was the footsteps of of the Man of la Mancha in Spain and those of vasco da Gama in Portugal. The year before was Chile and Argentina. If only I were not so afraid of flying how much more of the world I'd love to see!
Spring did arrived like a lion in March but it was short lived. The last few days have been windy and a bit soggy but by May 1 things should look up. Actually, it's supposed to be eighty degrees on Saturday. Will go to the boardwalk probably.
Ciao.
Till we meet again!
Ro.
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