I am in pain. My neck is painful and I have a throbbing soreness all the way down to my arm and I am not happy at the way my life has changed. I am one of the safest drivers I know: no distractions, always on speed limit, no multi-tasking while I drive. I am

The poor kids have been very supportive and have been eating take out (thanks to many Desi places in Markham, bread and fruit.

My son asked me yesterday, whispered in my ear as I was leaving for the lawyer's office:
"Can you make your chicken and potato curry for dinner." I have not cooked for days. I cannot chop vegetables, least of all potatoes that are hard. So my 12 year old son will help me do this.

These were my daughter's grade 10 exams too: yet I was never home. I was either at my physiotherapist  or at the lawyers office or the doctor or the massage therapist. I could not do anything that she needed so that she could continue to study. She had to take care of her brother to make up for my absence. Her father would drive me around from visit to visit, as I wasn't yet driving myself. My neck hurts.


I realise that this has taken a toll on the wellbeing of my family although on the surface I am able to walk etc.

Slowing down like this has an impact on everything and everyone. When her father was away last week, she woke up at 5 am to clean the house and make lunch for all of us, sandwiches for three take a long time when you are 16 and groggy from studying half way through the night.

People outside of this life see only the two cars in the driveway (one now as the other has been fully paid for yet towed away, smashed beyond recognition) and the flowers and the UN reports on the best country to live in.

My pain and loneliness are my own.

Yet there are blessings, many. And I am counting them...

When are you coming home?

This question is asked often these days. And it is amazing how so many places are that. Not much to say yet, I am sure that will change when my head clears through this day. Report cards submitted, I am off to enjoy music in the streets: a typical Markham summer beginning. My silver ring lady will be there as will be the slabs of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries. Routines are good.

Milestones and moving on

This time of year is all about milestones. When I lived in Mumbai, June was the time for new books, new classes, lots of rain and new green grass. Here, in my home of 8 years, this is the time to say goodbye to grade 8 students as they graduate to their high school phase, to used duotangs where my son's manuscript edited by yours truly is tenderly filed: I stare at it for a long moment.

This is the time when the students who graduated in earlier years and who called me by my hyphenated last name for years suddenly call me ' miss' a message that the high school has done a fine job in many ways.

Milestones are watching my almost beautiful old-soul daughter disguise her excitement at turning 16 and being able to take driving lessons. I sneak a peek at her toothless laughing picture in the old photo album.

Milestones are all about knowing that I have come a long way and understanding that I have been given the gift of enjoying the journey.

The gaps that I inhabit

A lot has happened in the past months and days yet it has been a while since I have written here. Or written anything for that matter. I observed this hiatus for sometime and reminded myself that it was alright to observe my thoughts or just to do nothing at all. I did not write everything down, it was not necessary. Yet somewhere at the back of my mind I knew that this space waited patiently for my return.

These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.

There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.


In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.