tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1870125580391993942024-02-18T18:03:16.443-08:00Madness Of Motherhood: AbridgedSusmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-61273302035164027302017-12-17T07:17:00.000-08:002017-12-17T07:24:30.318-08:00As I count my gifts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is that time of the year when you are shopping a lot for the sake of holiday cheer and for the sake of pure pleasure of self indulgence. It is that time of the year when you are planning little outings in the warm and cool weather of Calcutta to celebrate togetherness. Christmas is out there in the streets. The lights, the circus, the picnics, the drunken evenings. In this part of the world, Christmas is nearer to the hearth. It is about holiday cheer and hot wines. But more importantly, it is about the celebrations at home.<br />
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I couldn't come to terms with it for a fair eight years. And then I went out and brought a Christmas tree. That was last year. And the young man was a year younger and hence more volatile. The Christmas tree had to be kept beyond his reach, much like the way you celebrate Christmas if you have a pet dog. This year, even before the Christmas tree was in the scene, the demand list had been made! The fact that they are talking about Christmas in their kinderkrippe(pre school) was evident. So, we three went to get our Christmas tree yesterday. And we made a card for Santa which would subsequently include the demand list.<br />
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And then, yesterday, I came across this video of Israeli soldiers taking Palestinian children and detaining them. The image of Fawzi al-Junaidi being taken by 20 heavily armed Israeli soldiers seems now multiplied beyond counts. The fate of many children crossing the seas while fleeing from war torn zones had taken the media by storm a year or two earlier. I look at my little man singing "Wheels on the bus" and being drawn in to the world of planets, stars and black holes, and a sigh escapes.<br />
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What gift am I getting some dear ones asked. I should have said I have my blessings and am counting them.<br />
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<i>down by the bay, where the watermelons grow</i><br />
<i>stand little men and women aglow</i><br />
<i>I look at them and I try to find</i><br />
<i>a little man still not in the grind</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>down by the bay, where watermelons grow</i><br />
<i>stands the little man with a heart to sow</i><br />
<i>I look at him and in washed down eyes</i><br />
<i>I hope he can run, i hope he can fly</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>down by the bay, where watermelons grow</i><br />
<i>there are no little man or woman aglow</i><br />
<i>I look at them and in blood red flight</i><br />
<i>I see their wings burnt tonight</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>down by the bay, where the watermelons grow</i><br />
<i> I thank my stars above the clouds and still aglow</i><br />
<i>I look at my field, lush green and wide</i><br />
<i>I know it is safe on this side</i><br />
<i>of the world </i><br />
<i>that tears itself apart</i><br />
<i>I count the blessings that light up my hearth.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Merry Christmas and happy holidays friends!</span><br />
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-30607253319370294292017-03-19T07:22:00.003-07:002017-03-19T07:22:47.607-07:00A B C D E<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The little man is busy learning. Learning how to mimic mamma or baba, learning how to engage in a conversation with the limited ammunition of English words, learning how to sound the difficult consonant sounds of Bengali and, amongst others, learning his ABCs. A for.., B for... continue to echo through his busy mind. With him, Mamma is also learning her ABCs at another level.<br />
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Mamma's ABC s are that of Rational Emotive Behaviour Therapy or REBT. Besides the Freudian therapy that helps in digging into one's subconscious and the unconscious, REBT is an opportunity to find a pattern in the chaos of the mind's life.<br />
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Let me put forth the ABCs with an anecdote.<br />
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Several months ago, i was travelling back home from a friend's place with my mom and my little man. Suddenly, the car broke down in the middle of traffic. What followed was a chaos. Finding a fitting mechanic in the late evening hours in the city appeared to be a difficult task. In the mean time, the mind was wandering and found the self to be the cause of the problem at hand. The heart felt that it must be the negativity of the self that has caused the incident of the car trouble. Let's say that this is the activating event A.<br />
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If i look at it now, i would find B, the irrational belief that the self is the cause of the car trouble and that the self is not good enough at anything. The car broke down due to some mechanical problem, and not because of the negativity settled in the self. The incident does not reflect upon the goodness of the self either.<br />
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As a result of the activating event, A, what happened that night was that the self reached a breaking down point. There was guilt and tremendous sadness. This consequence is, say, C.<br />
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The questioning of the irrational belief, B, is, say, D. How do i question B? i put forth some rational questions- Can a car possibly break down because of a feeling? Does the car bear a living heart that can be affected hence? What proves the lack of worth of the self?<br />
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What emerges from the process of A-B-C-D is what we call E, the new experience or the new philosophy. In this particular case, it is<br />
1. the realisation that the car is a mechanical entity and can be subject to mechanical failures.<br />
2. the negativity in the self has no such supernatural powers as to affect the functioning of a car.<br />
3. the worth of the self can't be measured by the functioning of a car, or a lack thereof.<br />
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So, that's mamma's A-B-C-D-E.<br />
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It is a theoretical exercise undoubtedly. The number of times i can do it when am in the moment of the activating event, is still insignificant. But what i try to remember more is that it is an exercise that can be mastered with practice.<br />
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My little man struggles with his M and N , while i struggle with my Mind. We both are at the learning phase of bricks of growth.<br />
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Image from <a href="http://www.strictly-stress-management.com/stress_reduction_techniques.html" target="_blank">Strictly stress management</a> and <a href="http://counsellingtutor.com/counselling-reference-library/level-3/albert-ellis-rebt/abc-model/" target="_blank">Counselling Tutor</a></div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-90492612290810996342017-02-10T14:01:00.001-08:002017-02-10T14:01:26.580-08:00Of potty and pee breaks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Two and up is the ripe old age of learning the bio mechanisms of the little body, studies and surveys suggest. And mothers believe them as they do believe that the sun is standing still at the centre of the solar system. Trials and tribulations, accidents outside the pot and absolute defiance make the potpourri of lives of moms and their toddlers at this stage. In this part of the world, none of it matters.<br />
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While there are semi outrages against the diaper, there is an ambivalence of acceptance of facts and figuratives. The cold Austrian winter is not the time to attempt potty and pee training. This mom is neither a freak nor a supermom to try it either. This post is thus not about the little man's trying times, it is about the mother's.<br />
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Once you have a baby, notorious stories about moms skipping showers for days, till before she screams for help abounds. Forget showers, i say. What about pee-breaks and potty-breaks? This little man would invariably wake up the moment the mom used to step out of the bed for a pee-break. After a couple of days, the crying would become a natural alarm for the grandparents on the above floor.<br />
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Things got only minuscule better as the days advanced. The little man began to crawl, then toddle and finally walk to the closed bathroom door and wail inconsolably, even when the father was present right beside him. The mom often had an ominous feeling of imminent child protection unit knocking at the door. Bless the poop it never happened.<br />
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That brings us to the unholy aspect of what i call the privilege of potty. The wailing was no different in this case. The difficulty was the fact of time that it needed. There is no elegant way of saying this but that, the peace of potty as essayed by <i>Gopal bhanr*</i> in his stories, is lost once you become a mother.<br />
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The realisation that the bodily mechanisms of a mother have to be moulded to the rhythms of the baby's life, comes with much practice and a sense of nirvana.Training your body to answer to nature's call only if it suits the baby's schedule is a monumental achievement for which knighthood may as well be bestowed.<br />
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Next time some dork passes you a wretched line, answer back, "How long can you hold back your potty?" I believe your line will score an under the belt point unquestionably.<br />
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Oh, and by the way, the sun is not really static. It goes around the milky way galaxy every 230 million years.<br />
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<i>*Gopal bhnar was asked by the King of Krishnanagar, that, how does he feel at the birth of the prince. Gopal replied gleefully that the joy he felt is like the one he feels once his bowels are clear. The King took offence at Gopal's choice of simile and was very angry. Shortly thereafter, one day the King and Gopal were travelling by boat when the King felt the nature's call. The boat was shored and the King could have his bowels cleared. Then, Gopal asked the King, how do you feel now? The King replied with satisfaction that he felt very happy. Gopal then brought up the topic of simile he used at the news of the prince's birth, and the King accepted the aptness of the simile. </i> </div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-49880683116386699422017-01-14T06:44:00.001-08:002017-01-14T06:50:00.971-08:00Of books and babies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When the little man was wee bit little than now, he had his first book. The books of small poems or <i>chhora </i>were read to him by his grandparents. But <i>Bagher Golpo </i>(The Tales of the Tiger) by Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury was the first book that he 'read' when he could sit by himself.<br />
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Every night, before snuggling to sleep, it had become a ritual of sorts. Observing the pictures with the same care with which the pages were torn, he valued his reading time immensely. When he had more than one book to attend to, he would pick up his favourite from the bunch to begin the reading session. The Tales of the Tiger was followed by a beautiful book gifted by one of his paternal grandma's friend. It was a Bengali alphabet book with rhyming verses and the accompanying pictures were etchings done by none other than Satyajit Roy.<br />
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Due to the intense 'reading', none of the original books exist except in shreds. It took a lot of effort to get hold of the Bengali alphabet book's second copy. There possible was no great need of second copies of each of the two aforementioned books, since, many more books would follow in quick succession. But there was one need that was beyond the little man and his existence.<br />
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Those two books are elements of memory. Now, when i bring forth these books to read with the little man, he doesn't. i believe, remember his early reading times. What these two books are worth is the love for books that seems to show through him. He has his new favourite book - the 'baby book', he calls it. It is <i><a href="http://www.amazon.in/Smile-Baby-Parragon-Books/dp/1445434571" target="_blank">Smile baby smile</a></i>. It has lived through the phase of reading by tearing pages. He knows the book by heart and actually reads along with either me or his dad.<br />
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The imagination in his heart hopefully grows with each book he 'reads'. When he would tear books at an early age, i didn't reprimand him. i read somewhere, tearing up pages is 'reading' too for very young kids. i didn't need to reprimand him to stop his habit of tearing pages. In broken sentences, he would try to communicate if and when such accident happened. Turning the torn page in his hand he would say, "<i>Jah, chinre.</i>" (Oh, torn.)<br />
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What introduction of books to babies do, i am yet to witness in the forthcoming years. For starts, they learn early not to rip off pages from mom's favourite books lined up in the bookshelf. But what about scribbling? Well, that's another story for another day. <br />
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-83374631988157123312016-10-25T03:49:00.001-07:002016-10-25T04:13:31.694-07:00happy birthday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The one who ushered in motherhood in me turned two yesterday. The difficult days had turned to weeks, weeks to months and months to years. In the last one year, the little man had grown from one with unstable steps to roadrunner cruiser. He had moved on from surviving only on milk to approximated human eating behaviour. He has made a neat choice of his favourite toy- wheels. He loves to read books at bedtimes. He has developed a knack for giving speeches in an incomprehensible language to humans. And yesterday, i noticed he has also the devilish glee if he can pull a prank on another of his age.<br />
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i used to read a lot of mommy blogs that speak a lot about getting a habit out of a child at an early age. Self-soothing, no milk after bedtime and busy-bags are some of the issues that they often focus on. Frankly, i am a bohemian by spirit and hence categorically organising each or any of the above-mentioned thing has been a difficult task. My little man still drinks milk while sleeping. He still needs someone to rock him to sleep. On his bad days, he still clings on to me and is cranky. He still is a toddler who needs activities, even-if they are not out of prepared busy bags. And i realise its okay if he is not like the others.<br />
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He is pretty much like himself. He is visciously suspicious of new things offered to him. At the same time, he seems to be happy to meet people on the streets any day, tugging at their clothes, or screaming loudly if the the other person hasn't registered a wave of his hand. He calls all his relations by the first alphabetical sound, making him aware of almost all the <i>byanjonbarna</i> there are in the Bengali script. Moni becomes Mo, Shonadida becomes, Sh(n)o, Thamma becomes Tha, Ponaidida becomes P(n)o.<br />
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In the midst of all his idiosyncrasy, he teaches me some important lessons of life. He is angry only till the time his reason of anger is unattended. He doesn't carry its baggage. He is always looking for ways to be busy. He is calm at times focused on his favourite wheel. He is forever in joy.<br />
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These are lessons that spiritual guides often impart. These are lessons that a little man imparts to me. Happy birthday little man. Happy birthday to me.</div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-6434027377341381712016-10-23T01:04:00.000-07:002016-10-23T01:04:27.000-07:00time and me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As i stood there, waving at the taxi that was leaving for the airport with my partner, i did not cry. It was only ten days ago that the magical moment had happened. i wanted to be strong. i wanted to be calm. i wanted to be the best that i can be for my little man.<br />
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The pain of separation from your best friend, mingled with the immense pressure of handling your baby right, created a chaos in the mind that went unnoticed to the conscious self. My parents were there to support me through that phase and support they did. Yet, the photographic joy that you imagine would follow the birth of your child is far from reality. From the bloody mess of the hospital, you come home to the truth that life will never be the same again. The peaceful shower times, the relaxing meal times were things of the past. Late at night when you go for a pee break, the little man magically wakes up and wails at the top of his voice.<br />
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You learn to eat while cradling the baby to sleep. You learn to shower in minimal time. You learn that rest is the ability to take a deep breath. But you often wonder, in the dead of the night, in corners of the room, in your solitude, on the sly, whether you have taken on more than you can handle. You think about it and you shun yourself to silence. What a silly thought is that! How can a mother even think like it!<br />
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The more such thoughts crowd the mind, the more you lean away from thinking to extroverted exaggerated actions of affections, celebrations and responsibilities. And still everything can't be done right. When anything goes amiss, the soul is tortured to believe that the self is at fault.<br />
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In the midst of it all, the little man learns to hold on to his bottle with fist-ed hands, wants to crawl, falls off from the bed, has potty issues, learns to run with his walker. So many life events happen that the soul wants to forget it has any pain. But the tears welled up within. They were tears of joy as much as they were tears of that prickly pain that is of no use.<br />
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It was six months after post natal depression set in, i think, that i revealed to my family the fact that i was in depression. Time heals, people say. Sometimes it does not. And you need help. </div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-18983472113306587522016-10-12T22:57:00.001-07:002016-10-12T22:57:52.491-07:00change and me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
i lay on the table like frog about to be dissected. Somewhere else Kolkata Knight Riders were having a match. Somewhere else the festival of lights was being celebrated with fireworks -banned and otherwise. Somewhere else the goddess of wealth (Goddess Lakshmi) and the goddess of misfortune (Goddess of A-Lashmi) were appeased a while ago. Somewhere else the worship of the Goddess Kali had begun. And in that moment, i lay like a frog to be dissected.<br />
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A little while ago, he had missed a heart beat. Missing a heart-beat had never sounded as ominous as it did at that moment. It had to be a Cesarean. Cutting through flesh, through layers of bloody mess, he would emerge. Our little man. The nauseous feel of the blood and the mess remained even though i couldn't feel a thing. i remembered Kafka's <i>The Metamorphosis</i>. Surely i wasn't metamorphing into anything. The metamorphosis had happened ten month and ten days ago. The walk had gradually become strange, the breath had become heavier, the taste for food had changed every day, the washroom had become farther and farther. That was change. That what was happening there, in the middle of the night, as my partner paced impatiently and my parents waited with camouflaged anxiety, wasn't really change.<br />
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The little man, wrapped in clean white sheets, with a white cap on his little head, fish-mouthed me and blew bubbles. His eyes were crystal black. The nurse who held him said hurriedly, "Contact, contact. Cheek to cheek." i barely felt his cheek to mine. It was implausible almost. This living being had grown in me, listening to light and classical music. This living being had grown in me, listening to Sartre and to retellings of the Ramayana. This living being had moved, nudged, kicked, gasped in me. This living being was the magic we were waiting for.<br />
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i called to the nurses to give him to me. They said, they will give him in time. i took the pain killers for i was in no mood for pain. Three long hours passed before we met properly. He. so little, in my arms, seemed to be the most precious thing i had ever held. Dishevelled hair, last night's clothes didn't matter. We clicked our first family picture as the morning was setting in.<br />
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The romance of motherhood hit the wall when i wasn't producing enough milk to satisfy my little man's hunger. My partner came rushing from home, (he had reached home a little while ago). He tried to reason with me. The second-time mother in the bed beside mine consoled me as well. It's normal they said. So did the nurses. But i couldn't get over the first guilt i ever felt for my little man.<br />
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To me the equation was simple. i was pregnant, a baby would be born, i would feed and clothe him.<br />
For individuals like me, taking on guilt for others' actions or things beyond my control is a problem in my social behaviour. But i was in no state of mind to analyse it all.<br />
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At that point of time, the only thing that occupied my mind was that i, the mother, was being unable to feed my child. i held myself guilty, no matter what everyone said. i understand now that i carried this guilt for quite a few months after that.<br />
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This was the beginning of post-natal depression i think. This mental illness is again an issue that is mostly left unaddressed in our society. While with the birth of the baby, the baby's health and wellness becomes naturally a priority, the concern for the health of the mother is limited to her physical well-being.<br />
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In the weeks and months that followed, i would hold on to my little man, may be feeding him, may be rocking him to sleep, and still feel the tears rolling down my eyes. A sharp pain, as if something was amiss, ran through the veins. I was ashamed to share this with anyone. How could i, the mother of such a beautiful child, feel anything but happiness? <br />
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My world had changed for sure. It had evolved into something that i was still grappling with.<br />
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-32895349349326687182016-10-11T10:57:00.001-07:002016-10-11T10:57:50.262-07:00"We know what we are, we know not what we may be" <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While it is all in the cycle of things, it can also be a matter of imaginations. The imagination of a new beginning is celebrated with the metaphorical arrival of the Goddess with her family in the earthly domain. The imagination of the end of a cycle is perpetuated by the <i>bisarjan </i> of the same Goddess and her family into the rivers. The holiness is part of the imagination. The godliness is part of the imagination. It is pure imagination that makes you believe that the burning of the effigy of the Ravana is the beginning of the end of evil. It is imagination that powers the images of the Goddess and her said family, and, that of Ravana. <div>
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The last time we went to the doctor for a check-up of our little man, the one thing she asked among others was if the little man participated in imaginary play. Imaginary play is an important part of the mental growth of a child. The little man stays busy with imaginary cooking with his cars and the freshly bought vegetables. He cleans the house with anything cylindrical, imagining it to be the broom. His cars enter imaginary tunnels and emerge from them equally magically. His cars are fed with milk in imaginary bottles and are put to sleep each night. The magic wand of imagination has touched him. </div>
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As a child, i exercised my imagination to the fullest. i had an imaginary friend with whom i shared my thoughts. It was a happy sort of imagination. The line between imagination and reality was clearly marked. It was in the final school years that i started believing that i could read people's thoughts and heard them say things. The voices were clearly heard and there was no reason to disbelieve them. </div>
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They told me how worthless my life was and how much excess i was blessed with. The subscriptions to magazines i read were a waste for my family, they said. The art class i enrolled in was better off without me, they said. They were the voices i heard. They were the voices i believed in. It was the voices that was the first sign of my illness. My auditory hallucinations, along with my belief that i was to be harmed were diagnosed as preemptive symptoms of schizophrenia. It was with my family's support that i was kept under medicines and continuous supervision. i look back to those days with thankfulness. </div>
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In the scheme of things, there is one individual, besides my dear doctor uncle, who helped me get back to life. He is Professor Somnath Bhattacharya, a retired Professor of Psyhcology in the University of Calcutta. What he did was put me through exercises of mindfulness. Our sessions included discussing the Gita, the Upanisads, listening to music and discussing dream sequences that i had. </div>
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As i see my little man imagining a world of things, i only hope that he does them mindfully. Asking it from a two year old is possibly crazy, but i truly wish he learns to play mindfully, that he learns to live mindfully. The walking on the thin line between imagination and reality that i had experienced, i wish not for him. But the awareness of that line may be a worthwhile lesson learnt. </div>
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*the title of the post is a quote from William Shakespeare's <i>Hamlet.</i></div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-28555201012358498252016-10-10T04:53:00.001-07:002016-10-10T04:53:43.594-07:00sthiti dehi, shakti dehi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Forty-eight minutes. The concluding twenty-four minutes of <i>Ashtami</i> (the 8th lunar day of the <i>Debipokkho</i>) added to the first twenty-four minutes of <i>Nabami</i> (the 9th lunar day of the <i>Debipokkho</i>) make up the <i>Mahasandhikkhon - </i>the auspicious blend of minutes that recounts the Chamunda version of the Goddess. Chamunda is said to be the only <i>Shakti/</i>power born out of the goddess while all the other <i>Matrikas</i> (manifestations of the Goddess) are born out of gods and resemble them in some way or the other. Well that's what David Kinsley's version is.<div>
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The <i>Sandhipujo</i> itself is a celebration of junctures, of break-ins and new beginnings. Further, Chamunda worship in this phase often leads me to think about the various moods that the Goddess encompasses.How does she manage to turn on one mood and switch from one to the other effortlessly? How does she handle the pressure of shifting moods? Or, does she feel no pressure at all? True, all these questions make the Goddess essentially humane. But that's exactly where I want to reach. </div>
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Humanising the figurines that we are supposed to worship often gives me power/<i>shakti</i> to deal with mortal situations. The imagery of the Goddess appears to be the various moods/ responsibilities that a woman is engaged in. Taking it a step further, i wish to understand how She shifts from one form to the other. The how of it seems unanswerable. For She is a goddess and a goddess can do anything. However, it is the 'how' of it that is important to me.</div>
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Being a patient of bipolar mood disorder (BMD) I have my highs and my lows. I guess, that is pretty natural with most of us. That doesn't make everyone a patient of BMD. My highs are full of activity, creative outputs and action. My lows reach the level of manic depression. The shifts from one stage to another are anything but smooth. They affect not only me, but also the people surrounding me. </div>
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During my low phase, it becomes a Promethean task to be normal, forget about being happy. The people surrounding me become deeply scarred by each of such phases. That again affects me, raising guilt feelings which doesn't help in shifting the mood.</div>
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During the high phases , what can be termed as hypomania, i am in a phase of hyperactivity. The problem with it is that it can evolve into mania or switch to serious depression. So, being supremely happy or increased activity is also not a boon.</div>
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I feel that issues of mental health are not talked about in our societies. They are still hushed conversations in doctor's chambers or self-help groups. Fearlessly identifying myself as a patient of mental health took me years. This disclosure may put many to unrest, specially my caregivers. One of them, even expressed the concern that what if i receive negative comments, can i handle them? Truth be told, yes i can. i can turn my back to shallow comments and negativity, in spite of the fact that i am currently going through a difficult phase. It is thanks to my partner and to my family, that i get the strength to go on, to take one day at a time. </div>
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While we worship the different representations of the Goddess, we turn a blind eye to the mental health patients who suffer from personality and mood disorders. When change manifested in the Goddess can create positive emotions, the mental health patients require an affirmation that they too can change and have positive emotions. They need plenty of courage to believe better days are ahead of them. </div>
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Mental illnesses are not eerie, weird things to be shunned under the carpet. They are illnesses much like your heart disease and stomach ache. As <i>Nabami </i>festivities continue, i wish that may the festive spirit extends our consciousness of courage to accept and to support that which is unstable and an illness after all.</div>
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-43467159418008253912016-10-08T07:24:00.002-07:002016-10-08T09:49:02.060-07:00to have or to not, that is the question<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I learnt my first Vietnamese words and phrases thanks to the xe-om (the motorcycle taxi) drivers and their questions. After the primary courtesy question - where am I from, the series of questions that followed were impeccably personal and intrusive. Am I married? For how long am I married? And then the ultimate personal question- Why don't I have kids yet? This actually reads as "Have kids ASAP!" <br />
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The idea that marriage primarily means reproduction still persists today, at least in the Asian societies. 6 years of marriage with no intention of having a child often puzzled elders at home and those in Vietnam. If I talk about reproductive rights, screams of feminism may arise. Yet, I will bring up this issue nonetheless.<br />
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Having a child is no longer an issue of continuation of family legacy. Either or both the man and wife may think of taking the responsibility of having a child at a later stage in the relationship. Or, for that matter, they may decide not to have a child at all. Reproductive rights are therefore not only that of a woman but also that of a man.<br />
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The six years before we decided to have a child were well-spent. We prepared for the child only in that we decided to have a baby and take responsibility of another life altogether. Frankly, it was frightening at first. we never seemed to be ready for a baby. I was scared to death about having a baby although I wanted it at the same time. "I couldn't keep a cactus alive in the window sill, how the hell would I take care of a child?!", I thought.<br />
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My partner was worried if we were financially capable of supporting a child and its needs. Both of us thought, may be we will know when we will be ready. A colleague of my partner burst the bubble. He said, "You'll never be ready for a baby. You have got to make a decision. That's it."<br />
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We were surprised when the wand turned blue one fine morning. It was too soon, we thought. Even our doctor got confused by our reactions to the extent that he eventually asked, "Aren't you happy with the news?" Well, we were happy and apprehensive at the same time. The decision was irreversible now. And we were up for the joyful challenge.<br />
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More important questions followed. Was I to shift to India for the child birth? If I was to stay in Hanoi, Vietnam, how would I live - the Vietnamese way of care-but-panic-not? Or, the Bengali way - live-in-panic-and-do-nothing? Questions to the doctor included- if I were to go up and down the stairs, while I saw Vietnamese pregnant women riding their motorbikes in their third trimester.<br />
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What kept me sane through those days were my lovely girlfriends in Hanoi. </div>
Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-187012558039199394.post-88073321021158489352016-10-07T06:46:00.000-07:002016-10-07T07:24:56.150-07:00where it all comes from...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The Momma of all Mommas is here this season. She is visiting with her dynamic family. She has got two sons- one with the princely looks, the other with an elephant's head; and, two daughters- one filled with wisdom, the other with wealth. For pets, her family keeps a lion, an owl, a mouse, a swan and a peacock. [The dad's story is better left untold. ]<br />
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This peculiar family could be the baseline of multiple complex relationship oriented novels and short stories. Who knows if wealth and wisdom are matters of contention between the sisters? Who knows if the pets have their own complex survival strategies when living in the same home? Who knows how a wife forgives her otherwise 'high' husband for cutting off their son's head and eventually ending up with an elephant headed son? Who knows if the otherwise handsome brother is not munching on family war ideas all the while?<br />
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Well, to cut the long story short, the Momma is multi-tasking all the while - keeping the family stories churning while slaying the poor demon and balancing the ten different weapons of destruction in her ten hands.<br />
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And that is where MOMA comes in. This blog titled <b>Madness of Motherhood : Abridged</b> (will tell you in a while why it is abridged) is the author's third attempt to keep a blog alive. As the title suggests, this blog will remain a record of the madness that motherhood is and that which it brings into the family. It will also encompass issues of illness that the layman terms as 'madness' since the author is herself a patient of bipolar mood disorder and manic depression and has schizophrenic potential. The issue of mental health is going to pop up continuously in the posts.<br />
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But the madness of motherhood is going to be abridged. Since moms are always short of time to record the moments that make them mom. Else Durga would have a blog too.<br />
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Susmitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00004065911180610545noreply@blogger.com2