Category Archives: Food for thought

Be Kind to Yourself

I know you will say that you don’t have anytime for yourself. Life doesn’t give you time. What with work, family, friends, social media, etc, etc. Yes, maybe you will take a week off to go somewhere someday but now you have to rush, and if you get a minute you will browse posts on social media and cycle through conflicting emotions and live life vicariously even when you know that is unhealthy.

Be kind to yourself and break the chain before it pulls you down. Taking a break can be as simple as going for a walk for half an hour everyday; taking up a hobby such as painting or drawing; read a book; improve your knowledge on various subjects; learn a new language; call and talk to someone.

Traveling Isn’t Just About Seeing Places…

It’s about nurturing memories. 

I love every aspect of the process. The idea, the planning, the anticipation, the getting there, the realization you are there. The sound of unfamiliar tongues, the excitement, the anxious confusion–Where to go, What to do? The myriad choices and lack of time. Always the lack of time. The flavor of the food, the hubbub on the streets, so on and so forth.

But what I like the best are the wistful recollections once I get back.

Were you surprised by the crowds on the Paris streets? 

Yes! And that they smoked. All of them!

And they were all so smartly dressed. Just like we’d heard and read. 

And remember the guy with the mustache while we were waiting in line to get into Notre Dame?

It felt surreal like I was watching a movie or something.  He was a handsome dude. I couldn’t stop staring. He must’ve felt embarrassed. 

Doubt it. It looked like he was enjoying the attention.

And Notre Dame– what an awe inspiring experience! Climbing the spiral staircase was a test of stamina, both mental and physical. 

Rodin was something else though. That guy is… ahem! 

I lost count on how many Caprese sandwiches we ate in Italy. So many I almost got sick. But the cappuccino and gelato! Couldn’t get enough. But then we had to buy the water! Can you believe it?

Yeah, but then we got to climb the tower in Pisa. 

I was trying to keep a straight face while looking at David and the other sculptures at the Uffizi. 

The Belgian waffles tasted so good. Because it wasn’t a DIY

Do you remember the seagull scavenging for ice cream?

And the not so scenic drive to Palomar but the Hale Telescope was awesome!

Keepsakes for Old Age

I’m not old, I think. Not yet. But I’m getting there. Everyone is getting there. Maybe I’m a little ahead in the line because I’m thinking about it. About getting old. 

Am I sad? Not really. Maybe, just a little disappointed. Because I really didn’t have much of a youth. Because I spent most of it preparing for the future– for getting old. 

I don’t think I’m old because I’m still a productive member of society. People still seek my opinion and try to take it seriously (I hope). My opinion still counts for something. I’m not just someone to be tolerated. But then what is ‘old’? It is a state of mind. Because there are people who are old in their youth and others who are young when they are old.

I think I’m at the best time of my life. There is still a skip in my step and I’m not preoccupied with the condition of my joints. I still get excited to see new things, experience new places.

I don’t have any regrets. I’ve dealt with them all. In fact, I’ve dealt with them so well I don’t even recall what they were.  My desires are limited to traveling, reading, assimilating new ideas, and perhaps guiding others to live a better, more informed life. I’ve reconciled with my ambitions and disappointments.

But a day will come when I won’t matter any more; my opinions will be just that–opinions. So, I’m collecting keepsakes. Little memories– that’ll keep me company and help me pass the time. It could be anything– like the flavor of something delicious– from a long time ago–that perhaps I’d never get the chance to taste again. It could be a bird call; a chance conversation with a stranger; timeless streets through which I walked and walked but wasn’t afraid of getting lost because I had wonderful company. It could be the brilliant blue of the sky, the soothing silence of the forest, the dust on my shoes as I embarked eagerly on a different trail.

I hope that time will be short. I hope I won’t become bitter. I hope when you think of me it’ll be with a smile.

The Fickle Mind

the mind is a strange thing it can be brilliant and irrational Often generating senseless chatter Don't take to heart Ignore it.

 

The mind is at the center of the body. It controls/ influences every organ. Yet, a lot of its workings remain a mystery. How it does or doesn’t control or manipulate our thoughts and emotions. How things long ‘forgotten’ manifest in our subconscious in our dreams and influence our health and behaviour. How we carry our trauma with us like a back breaking burden.

There are many ways to heal- nature, meditation, mindfulness, counseling, etc. But first we have to recognize and be aware that sometimes we are our greatest enemies.

 

A Woman is to be Seen not Heard.

Bust of a woman by Picasso

It may sound cliched yet nothing could be truer. A girl who goes on to become a woman has always learned to lead an inferior life. She has learned to be a perennial serf, who lives in the shadows. Who is seen and not heard. If she speaks– it has to be in soft tones or whispers. She has to align her opinions with those of the society — she has to be uncontroversial, motherly, generous. She has to live for her family and the world at large. She is ‘weak’ thus needs to be protected, yet she is also taken advantage of. Hypocrisy much? 

If she rebels and asserts herself even in the slightest she at once surrounds herself with frowns and draws rebuke and criticism. How dare she? She is labelled a vixen, a mad woman and cast out or burnt at the stake.

Hence since the birth of time (with a few notable exceptions) she has learned to clip her wings, succumb to the pressures, curb her desires, even censor her thoughts. What a tragedy isn’t it?

Do read ‘The Awakening’by Kate Chopin.

Image is of a painting titled Bust of a Woman by Pablo Picasso– Oil with fixed black chalk on canvas. Displayed at Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena, California.

I Can’t Breathe!

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Three simple words but very powerful. It’s a primal cry of agony and fear. A SOS call transmitting tremendous distress. An urgent appeal for help. Anyone can understand it. Be it in any language. In my profession I hear it all the time and I leave everything and run (literally). I try to alleviate and ease (if not remedy) at least make the situation better.

I can’t get why anyone wouldn’t. There must be a reason.

Is it ignorance or hate or lack of respect for a fellow human life?

Which begs the question– are some lives less worthy than others?

 

 

 

You Will Always be My Mother

 

Our bond transcends Time, Worlds and Space. 

Our relationship doesn’t need a ceremony, or an oath, or witnesses, or a piece of paper.

It doesn’t need a special day, a reminder, or a note on the calendar. 

It doesn’t need talk, work, gifts and or constant reassurances. 

It is there when I need it, and I know it’ll always be there.

I can count on it at any time, I can make demands of it.

I can ask you to lay down everything else for me and you will

Because

I will always be your daughter and you will always be my mother.

Thank you, Mom!

 

The Color of my DNA

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The color of my DNA is brown.  I’m conditioned to despise it and assign labels to it– including but not limited to- low status, bad character, poor hygiene and scant education if any. And this is how it all began.

My mother is fair complexioned while I’m not. ‘Tumhari ladki kaali hai’ or ‘your girl is black or dark’ was a common remark I came across which my mother rushed to correct; ‘no, her color is gehua’ i.e ‘wheatish’ as if to provide me solace. It didn’t. Not really. Because I’d been labelled and it was drilled into me from as long as I can remember. Over and over. not necessarily in an accusatory rather in a matter of fact manner. Yes, my color is dark, meaning I’m not fair, or pretty or beautiful etc. And everyone knows how important it is for a girl to be ‘pretty’ in our society. I don’t think the intention was to put me down as many members of this ‘color’ club were very dear to me including my own mother. But it had its effect. I began to believe I was lacking. That I was inferior to my fair counterparts. I used to compare myself with others all the time. Often, I’d align the back of my arm with my mother’s hoping to see a change. I did try a couple of creams and soaps but gave up soon enough as they had no effect.

Fortunately, this ‘anomaly’ of mine remained a mere irritant. I wanted to make something out of myself. I was good in both academics and extracurricular activities and generally I got my way. So, even though I was insecure about my looks I didn’t let it hinder my progress. I realized very soon that color has nothing to do with beauty or character or competence. Working as a physician in the west I also discovered how color segregates people and turns them against each other and negates all the progress that humankind has made. Today I feel enriched interacting with people from different backgrounds and cultures and I realize how shallow and abhorrent it is to judge someone based simply on their skin color.

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