FICTIONISTA

There was a collective “Whoa!” as we gathered around the girl who had just joined us at our playground. A brown and white shaggy rabbit in her arms had us transfixed. We gaped in wonder at the little fellow she had been hiding from us for so long.

She mumbled something as she placed it on the ground, now, in the center of our circle, and stood aside to let us feast our eyes on it. As if selling us some idea, perhaps?

The rabbit sat still where it was placed, its floppy ears twitching nervously, its button eyes shining like red rubies in the afternoon sun. We continued scrutinizing it like observing bacteria under a microscope in a biology lab and murmured to each other in awe.

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We spoke softly as we discussed the creature, but dared not touch it. It was a rabbit, and rabbits were supposed to be cute. But this one was all dirty, unwashed, stinking; a pitiful version of the adorable ones we saw in our books.

We bombarded her with questions about the rabbit, most of which she replied to in murmurs we couldn’t decipher. But the one answer that we did catch on was why she was there with her pet rabbit out in the open.

“What? Your father really asked you to throw it out, Sharmila?” I gasped, incredulously, my eyes peering into the girl’s who was there to abandon the poor rabbit, as per her father’s orders.

I imagined a scary-looking man reclining in his rocking chair in the patio, taking in the gentle summer breeze, issuing orders to his kids to get rid of all the clutter lying around the house, which also included their pet rabbit.

“Yes,” she mumbled, feeling ashamed, I think, as she bent her head and looked at the creature with a sad look in her eyes. I think she felt bad for it but also felt helpless — her father lay down the law at their home, and his every wish was their command.

Ah, fathers!

I don’t know what came over me, but on an impulse, I picked up the stinky rabbit, gingerly — never having handled an animal in all of my twelve years — and announced with a hint of bravado, “The dogs will kill the poor thing here. I will take him home. We love animals!” stressing on the “love” for added effect.

“The girl should feel ashamed, abandoning a helpless animal like this,” I muttered as I hurried home with the rabbit.

I hadn’t thought of asking mom, or dad, or wondered what to do with the rabbit if they denied it an entry into our home. I just remember losing my heart to the little guy who looked so vulnerable. It needed a home, and I would give it to him — the momentary rebel in me had made up her mind.

We were never really pet lovers; we hadn’t ever had a conversation revolving around pets until that day. Dinner time conversations were always about school and studies and how we had to finish whatever was served on our plate because there were so many poor children out there who weren’t as blessed. Animals, or pets, weren’t a topic of discussion; a trend that would soon change, thanks to the new arrival, I thought to myself. A much-needed respite from discussing the dreaded school.

I reached home with the furball, pushed open the gate with one foot, and called out to mom to come, see what I had brought. I don’t remember what she said, but I clearly remember my grandmother voicing her displeasure as if I had picked up some trash on my way home. Thank god I had my grandfather’s support — an advocate at a high court, he knew how to defend a helpless soul.

“Let it be, please! The child has brought it home with a pure heart. We will keep the rabbit,” he announced. That was it. No one dared oppose grandpa. My heart was filled with love for the sweet, old man. No, not just because he didn’t reprimand me for doing something without asking for permission. But there was an intrinsic sweetness to him (just like the rabbit I now held in my arms) that appealed to me and made me favor him over my grandma, or even my dad, for that matter.

My sweet, sweet grandpa.

I did have a nagging fear about what dad would say once he returned from work. I had grandpa’s support now, but still…

Surprisingly, for me, dad accepted the rabbit without a protest. He also offered to take it to a vet for a thorough check-up the next day. Now, that was completely unexpected of this man. I was so overwhelmed by emotions, I felt my heart would explode!

I had always had this image of dad being the strictest father in the world. Mom often recounted how I, as a little girl, would ask her why we even needed dad; mom took care of me, so what was dad doing there, anyway?

But, the arrival of the rabbit changed it all.

Yes, he was still strict and very particular about our performance at school, which was rather dismal, but with the rabbit by our side, dad was all mush.

Every Wednesday — his day off — dad would carry the rabbit in a cloth sling bag, travel by bus to the animal hospital an hour away from home, get it treated by the vet for its various infections, and return home in the evening.

Dad would then recount all that happened during the journey to and from the hospital. How someone asked if they could hold the bag for my dad who couldn’t find a seat on the bus; how dad told them there was a rabbit in the bag, and how they would look in awe at the bag and take back their offer.

How we delighted in hearing these stories! Our evenings were now happier, too. There was a lot of laughter now, even after dad returned home from work. With our homework done, we would all spend time together, playing with the rabbit.

These precious moments filled my heart to the brim with love for this man who I had regarded with fear all my childhood.

Mom had always been the epitome of love and warmth, but dad, too, had a little bit of it tucked away somewhere in his heart. That was new to me — new and appealing.

But as all good things should come to an end, this one did, too.

After six months of living with us, our rabbit passed away.

It was a shocking experience for me and my brother; we hadn’t seen death at such close quarters until that day. We were devastated. We cried our lungs out that evening as we walked alongside dad to the creek near our home to give our dear rabbit a water burial.

All those beautiful memories with that adorable creature. Those precious moments of love and laughter watching dad’s gentler side. All of it came rushing to my mind’s eye as we walked back home with a heavy heart.

In hindsight, I think we all needed that rabbit in our life. A calming presence that brought with it an unbridled joy, and some precious moments for us kids. A soul who gave us the chance to see our dad in a new light.

I think life brings precisely those people to us whom we need more than those whom we want. We don’t realize it just then, but years later, when we reflect upon life, we understand how some tough times were relatively easy to put up with, all because a certain someone walked into our life, unannounced, and changed the way we lived

Do you think your dreams talk to you? Dreams that fill you with dread, or tranquility; dreams, that, at times, make no sense, but which, on hindsight, feel like messages, premonitions, warnings?

I have always wondered what my dreams tell me. On nights, when I have such vivid dreams as if I were seeing them when awake, I sit up in bed — my heart thudding in my chest, my thoughts all tangled up in each other — trying to read into those images. Finding meaning in them when actually there might not be any.

I remember my dreams with clarity. My childhood dreams, too. One of which comes to mind today as I gaze at my Grade 3 class photo. I don’t have a smile on my face like my classmates do; there’s a somber look in my eyes. Maybe my feelings for my school-life reflect in my eyes.

I hated school. And I hated studies. Father was strict about me performing well at school, but because I showed no interest in studies, I was often at the receiving end of his scolding and beatings. The proverbial rod was considered to be a magic wand back then, which transformed an unruly child into an obedient one; one which parents didn’t think twice before wielding. Thankfully, father never used the rod or the ruler; his hand was enough to inflict the pain that, he felt, I needed to feel to know how I hurt him by not doing my duty.

But what could I do if what the teacher taught made no connection with my mind? Math gave me panic attacks, and so did science and social studies. And, on days when I was to receive my grades for an exam or appear for an exam, my anxiety knew no bounds. It crept into my mind, forced its way down to my heart, and gripped it in a stranglehold that suffocated me. I felt drained. Nauseated. I knew my report card would contain more remarks in red ink than blue; I knew I would have to show it to father and ask for his signature on it, and I knew the scenes that would unfold thereafter.

The reprimands, the beatings, the sobbing at night, the restlessness as I waited for sleep to take me away from my world. Mother was the balm that healed my distressed soul — her warm embrace and her gentle voice lulling me into a deep sleep.

I distinctly remember dreaming of monstrous tigers and bears, sometimes oxen, too, prowling on the roof of my childhood home, waiting to pounce on the first human to exit their home. The neighborhood, deserted like it is these days as if battling a pandemic outbreak, with the only movement visible that of the beasts, on the roof of the row house I resided in.

The difference between dreams and reality did not present itself to me during my childhood as it does now. The nightmares scared me, petrified me. I tried to scream for help, but my screams were soundless. Nobody knew what I dreamed of, or how I slept through the night, shivering, clutching my pillow to my heart, my bedsheet over my head, tears spilling down my cheeks, and I was too dazed to talk about it the next morning. I went through the days, the months, and years, mechanically; dragging myself through school, hoping that someday my childhood would come to an end.

Time passed. Father mellowed and became more of a friend than a parent. And, childhood came to an end. But it was now replaced by adulthood. And some more dreams. There were no wild beasts wandering on my roof, though. But, there was darkness and confusion and chaos.

With mental illness in the family, adult life, particularly, married life, was not how I had imagined.

There was fear in every corner of the house. Fear, which furtively crept towards me every morning as I woke up from a fitful sleep, and followed me through the day as I went about trying to fulfill my duty as a good wife, a good daughter-in-law.

The house felt alien even after months of living there. Every wall, every window, every door felt strange, like it didn’t belong to me, like I didn’t belong there. The air I breathed in failed to fill me with hope and happiness. I pined for love to strengthen me, but it disappointed me, instead. It seemed to diminish by the day. Maybe the fear was too powerful and overwhelming for me to find any courage from love.

The mental illness of my second mother — my mother-in-law — filled me with dread.

The need to keep her happy and peaceful took its toll on me as I strove each day to do everything as perfectly as could be.

“Did she take her meds this morning? Will the meds keep her calm? Will I find her talking to herself, gesticulating wildly with anger in her eyes at god-knows-what?” My day began with a barrage of questions.

“Do I really care about her, or is this all about me?” my inner voice prodded me, as if in response.

My anxiety returned. And so did the haunting dreams.

I dreamed of making my way to mum’s home in the middle of the night, desperate for her warm hugs, her soothing words, and some sleep. Sleep that evaded me most nights.

I yearned for mother’s calming aura; the one that softened life’s blows. Maybe that’s why the desperation with which I walked towards her home, towards my warm and cozy nest.

I dreamed of trudging along with uncertainty on a strange street that had no streetlights; a street with vehicles zooming madly at breakneck speed with their headlights switched off. Leaning against a lamppost on a dark pavement from fear of getting crushed underneath a speeding vehicle I grieved as I failed to find my way home. My home!

The darkness and chaos stifled me. I thought of calling up mum, begging her to come, fetch me, save me. I fished out my phone from my bag and as I held it in front of my face, I noticed it was blank. Its interface showed me nothing except a black screen with a crack running across it. I realized to my horror I had also forgotten my mother’s number, as well as every other number that I could have dialed for help. Could have, had the phone not broken. I screamed out mother’s name, but not a sound escaped my throat, my muffled cries drowned out by the roar of the passing vehicles.

I woke up with a start every time I had this dream. My mind foggy, my heart pounding in my chest in a wild thump that refused to calm down even after a few deep breaths. What was my dream telling me? I asked my frightened self. Or, was it just harping on about how my anxiety was here to stay, a permanent resident in my mind?

There were nights when I dreamed of rummaging through my mother-in-law’s medicine cabinet to find all her meds disappeared. I asked her about it and she replied nonchalantly how her stock depleted many days ago and how she felt she didn’t need the meds anymore.

“What?”

My hands trembling uncontrollably, I opened the cabinet again, groping for some strips of tablets I could give her but found none. My palms sweaty, my throat parched, I tried to clear my turbulent mind. And I cursed myself.

“How could I have been so careless? I am supposed to be the dutiful daughter-in-law, taking care of her, her health, her meds, everything, and here I am, completely unaware about such an important matter!” I rebuked myself.

I rushed out to get the meds, but in vain. The medical shops were all either shut down, or the meds were out of stock. Perspiration dotting my forehead, I tried to think about what I could do next. She needed those meds; those managed her mind, controlled the thoughts from getting the better of her, held her together.

“What will she do without those meds? How will she manage? How will she sleep? And, how will I manage? Am I stressing about her meds for her sake, or for me? Am I being selfish? Is it really her that I am worried about, or is it me?” The barrage of thoughts jolted me from my sleep; confusion tearing at my mind — was it reality or a dream?

Recurring dreams, both— me dragging my exhausted self to mother’s home, and me hunting for my mother-in-law’s meds at some ungodly hour, my anxiety crushing my heart in a vice-like grip.

Waking up after these nightmares struck was fatiguing, frightening. I wanted to wake up to the reality that everything was fine, that mother-in-law’s meds were well-stocked, but I also wanted to keep sleeping because I was tired all the time I was awake.

Today, it’s almost five years since my mother-in-law passed away. It will be more than two decades since I learned to live with mental illness, even encourage people to speak openly about it, get the help it needs, but those dreams refuse to part ways with me. Anxiety is here to stay, meddling in every aspect of my life. Whatever I do, or say, it mocks me, dares me to ignore it, like a bully mocking his target.

Sometimes I wonder, had I paid attention to my dreams, heeded their advice, taken their warning seriously, would I be in a better place, emotionally? Physically, too? Would I be made of sterner stuff, armed myself with enough confidence, and fought every battle, courageously?

Would I have faced life’s curveballs bravely, without fear nagging me at every turn? Would I be a better human being? A better daughter, a better wife, a better daughter-in-law, a better person?

Should I have listened to my dreams?

In an article by my friend Holly Jahangiri, I read a line that stuck in my head. “Never let the Universe know you are bored.”

I couldn’t agree more. The Universe listens. It’s a mind reader, you know. A sly entity (if I can call it that) that has a knack of discovering even those secrets that you try to hide in the darkest corners of your mind!

Not only ennui but also our secret fantasies, our grudges against people who we meet with fake smiles; hatred for matters that are forced upon us and yet which we follow without any protest; repulsion for matters that we would rather not deal with in this life – all of it is information accessible to the Universe. God knows how.

The Universe finds out each and every one of these secret files that we stash away in some secret vault inside our mind and uses them against us, springing a surprise that’s like a jolt out of the blue.

Like, last week, when I was grumbling about something — oh, yes, about the lack of excitement in life, what else! — the Universe heard me. In hindsight, I imagine it did shake its head in disgust and decide to teach me to be grateful. I agree I was out of line for grumbling about the absence of any excitement considering the situation today. But, I am human, and to err is my birthright!

So, that day, last week, after having a scrumptious breakfast my tooth began to hurt. The pain came out of the blue. Like, all was fine a while ago and, bam! suddenly here was this ache, sending shockwaves through my body each time my tongue touched the tooth.

The pain was so intense, it left me in agony even when I ate an overripe banana! I writhed in pain and cried like a baby, but the pain persisted. It refused to budge even after I popped my first painkiller.

I was lucky that the medical stores were open because, in these days of #covid19, no dentists are prepared to put their hands into our mouth to either extract a wayward tooth or work on a root canal that will cure us of our discomfort.

The dentist was contacted (phone calls only), the antibiotics and some more painkillers bought as per his prescription, and the meds gulped down, but life refused to go back to normal.

Toothache is such. Not just the tooth, but the mouth, the face, the head, the neck, heck, the entire body aches. Whatever you do, the pain refuses to subside. Like a stubborn child, who plonks himself in the middle of the street, throwing a tantrum, not paying heed to his parents who beg him to behave, a painful tooth keeps at it, too — paining every second, not budging even after you have downed a couple of painkillers, not allowing you to eat even the softest of foods, making you starve till you run out of energy, patience, and hope, and are ready to give up your fight.

I lay in bed unable to sleep; I went into the kitchen to cook with not an idea of what I would do; I tried to relax on the sofa in front of the TV, I tried to write/draw/read, but couldn’t do a single thing. I was starving and had visions of food floating around in my mind’s eye, but there was nothing I could chew without the spasms coming every second and bringing with them a fresh wave of agony.

Crying in bed, I lay wondering when this will end — this, as in, life. I just wanted to die. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but with the end of the lockdown a mystery, I had visions of myself weakening from the continuous pain for days together and wondering how I would survive the next god-knows-how-many-days of this isolation.

There were a few moments of respite when the painkillers did work, but the pain returned with a vengeance, and then it was all back to square one.

As I lay in bed, praying to the Universe to have mercy on me, to take away this ‘excitement’ and give me back the mundane life, I tried being grateful for what I did have. But, it’s human nature, you know, that when you are suffering — even if from a toothache — all the good sense goes flying out of the window. The gratitude, the peace of mind, all of it is tossed out in the trash and all you think about is, “When will this end?”, or, “Why me? Why now?”

Cut to the present, it’s five days since it all began and today is the first day since I ate, as in, relished my food. The antibiotics did their job; the painkillers worked their charm and here I am, typing these words after letting out a satisfied burp that follows a hearty meal.

And yes, I am grateful I did not have to step out of my house to get treated. Grateful because had the pain not subsided, I would have had to visit a hospital and stand the risk of contracting the virus thingy that’s caused havoc around the world. Just imagine, it would have been a double whammy!

I can imagine the Universe smiling at me benevolently now that I have learned to keep my mouth shut and not ask for anything — least of all excitement. I have understood that life is not the ‘happening’ kind these days, but there is a hell of a lot happening out there that we don’t want to happen with us, so we better be happy with what we have.

Yes, there will be times when I will grumble and groan for lack of any social life and the rest of the luxuries that I have left behind. But, we are humans; discontentment is a trait we imbibed from our ancestors, so yes, we will want for more. But, whatever it is that I thirst for, I will keep it for another day when all of this will be (hopefully) over.

Until then, I will not yearn/ask for/beg/dream/fantasize/expect/complain about anything.

The Universe is listening, and it has some really weird ways of fulfilling our wishes.

P.S.

If your tooth starts complaining, reach for an ice pack, gargle your mouth with salt water (at room temperature) multiple times in a day, massage your gums gently with salt, and call up your dentist for help. You won’t be able to visit a dentist as that involves too many risks. So, take care. And, be grateful. 🙂