Positivity Weekly - Vol 4

Perceptions determine our thoughts, emotions, speech and actions. Let’s spend the next few minutes reading amazingly empowering stories and rediscovering the positivity all around us.

Positivity Weekly will appear on this blog around the weekend. I will bring the best of news from any and every source I can access. I will include my own personal experiences, if they fit. And if you have any apt stories, anecdotes or insights to share, I will put them here with pride. In the long run, your participation will determine the quality of this initiative. Do write in with your contributions and feedback to connect@eshwarsundaresan.com. And if you like this initiative, please share it widely.

Hello there, my friend! Ready to feel more positive? Let’s begin without further ado…

News from the public domain

Oh, what a winner!

All marathon winners stand out. But none more so than Lata Bhagwan Kare. This 61-year-old ran barefoot in a traditional nauvari sari and made more prepared participants look like laggards. And when she won the race, she left the crowd agape. How did she do it?

‘While running, I was talking to myself and telling that I want to win this race and I did it,’ she says. She thought it. She did it. Do read the DNA report about the race here.

Husband goes pink for ailing wife

Relationships are utterly complicated. Unless two people are truly in love. If they are, then relationships become easy as strawberry cream cake.

In this story, the wife is struck down with cancer. The husband decides to cheer her. Not once, not for a week. He makes it his life’s mission to keep his wife happy and positive. He dresses up in pink female attire, and then… well, you’ll have to watch the video to know the rest.

Now, that’s true love!

We are more beautiful than we think

Who is the person in the mirror to you? Your best friend? Or your worst critic? If you suffer from the trauma of incessant self-criticism, then this video is especially for you. Because while you are busy finding faults with yourself, others are noticing your beauty. So how about giving yourself a break? And becoming your own fan?

An angel is born in a garbage dump

We’ve all felt down in the dumps at some point in our lives. At such a moment, if an angel descends upon us and believes in our resurrection, magic begins to unfold. Do watch this video to learn how a man became an angel for a dog. Of course, the story doesn’t end there. You’ll have to watch the video to learn what happens next.

Women need no ILLITERACY

Once upon a time, a Nepali woman took her ailing mother to the local hospital. She was asked to take her mother to see the doctor in Room 105. Not having received education, she didn’t know how to identify the room. She and her mother returned home that day without availing treatment. That day, she realized that illiteracy was a millstone around her neck. Watch this amazing video to know what she did about it.

A precious carefree moment in Cancer

Patients of terminal illnesses are reminded of the inevitable all the time. While the rest of us are just as mortal as these souls, their mortality somehow begins to define them. The thought of perishing might rule their lives.

That’s why somebody decided to give these wonderful people a true gift. A gift of one precious carefree moment of aliveness. These people had fun experiencing that moment. I’m sure you’ll have fun watching it.

As told to me

All about the fun

This happened to my friend Vani when she was researching on her thesis at the university in Penang. Being obliquely associated with the human genome project, Vani’s days were spent poring into microscopes; her job was to try and decode a molecular-level mystery of the universe.

But on that fateful evening, some other mystery occupied Vani’s mind. A couple of seemingly reckless women – who behaved like typical teenagers – had insisted on taking her to town for some “special chicken curry”. So Vani waited outside her office for their arrival, feeling anxious. Her anxiety increased when a Honda City screeched to a halt inches away from her. Inside it were her two “chicken curry friends”, asking her to get in.

For the next couple of hours, the following events transpired:

• One of the ladies drove the car at F1 speeds and blamed every other driver in the vicinity for “being terrible lah”.
• Both ladies laughed off their back aches and knee pains as part of the scenery. “Why should a little pain stop us from having fun?” they kept demanding.
• En route, they picked up another friend – a lady in her seventies – and then called her a sissy for having so many fears.
• They kept mocking Vani for having a “less free soul” because she was married and had a kid. They, on the other hand, were footloose and in full control of their fun-filled lives.
•  After dinner, all four ladies drove to a Buddhist temple. Apparently, the fun-filled ladies wanted to donate some fruit. And while at the temple, they checked out some Buddhist priests and happily chatted up with those priests that caught their fancy.
• Later in the night, they made a stopover to buy cosmetics that were on sale.

By the time they dropped Vani back home, she was fatigued. But the two fun-filled ladies… they were still going strong.

What’s so remarkable about this story? Well, one of the two ladies (Aunt P) was 78 years old. Her friend, (Aunt T), was 84! And at that age, they were exhibiting so much zest for life. Says Vani, “From these young girls, I learnt the meaning and importance of independence, freedom and joy. They are my old-age role models. I hope I will age as gracefully as them. That I will be able to laugh at myself, keep the child in me alive, shrug off my health issues and drive as if I’m going somewhere.’

You can read Vani’s version of the encounter here.

In conclusion

Well, the conclusion is the same as always. If you wear pink-coloured glasses, the desert will look like cotton candy. Our perceptions rule us. Let’s choose them with care.

Until next time, I wish that your life too is filled with “special chicken curry friends”.

To read the previous volume of Positivity Weekly, please click here.
To read the next volume of Positivity Weekly, please click here.

They understand only love

"Why did you mention it in the Acknowledgements segment of your first novel?"
"Are you okay talking about it?"

These are just a couple of the questions my friends and readers have asked me regarding "it." No, it's not a cocaine addiction. "It" is my father's Alzheimer's condition and I do not feel the need to hide it. Frankly, I'd like to talk about everything in my life. The great and small mistakes I made, the occasions when I have been a momentous jerk etc. The only facts I still won't put out in the open are those impacting other people - people who don't want those facts known.
Anyway, back to my father's Alzheimer's. It is a rather challenging disease. For the patient. And also for the caregivers. As a secondary caregiver, I'd like to chronicle my journey so far in an attempt to record what my father, and his disease, have taught me about life.

In some ways, the outlook of my family changed the day he was diagnosed with the disease back in 2005. Our initial response was to get frustrated with my father's changing personality. Gone was the man with immense concern for his family. Gone was his ready wit and ultra-confident personality. One by one, the traits that made him an admirable man went missing. What seemed to remain were his weaknesses, now amplified by the disease.

The clouds thicken, a silver lining is born

At this juncture, my personal life crumbled around me. I felt lost, hopeless. There were moments when I resented not only my father's disease but also him. He was supposed to be my pillar of strength. Instead, he was somebody who could not even comprehend what was happening to me. I tried telling him about my pain and, in response, received a vacuous stare and sadly-twirled lips. I could barely prevent myself from howling my agony from the rooftops.
Of course, my mother was available for solace and support. But I decided that she was already dealing with too much. So I wore a mask of bravery and went about my life. My pretend-confidence rubbed off on my mother to some extent. Right there, I learnt two crucial lessons:
1) When I act like a brave person, I inspire bravery and also inch closer towards actually being brave &
2) When in a crisis, I must look within for strength. The external world can, at best, support this pursuit of strength.
The third lesson was less evident at that moment. Like any rebellious son, I had carried an array of grudges against my father. The pattern broke a couple of years before the disease struck him, when we managed to have a heart-to-heart chat about our differences. During this conversation, he acknowledged his many failings as a father and also explained the rationale behind some of his past decisions. I felt lighter at the end of that chat. Being a loving father, he did not fling counter-accusations at me. He just told me that he was proud of everything I had achieved.
And now, as the disease was claiming his brain, I felt infinitely grateful for the conversation that happened before it was too late. So my third lesson was this: the best time to bury the hatchet is NOW.

Is acceptance possible?

Meanwhile, my father's amplified weaknesses were grating against my nerves. His smoking, for instance. Doctors suggested rationing the number of cigarettes we gave him - so we began giving him a cigarette at specific times during the day. We hoped this would make him healthier and less susceptible to cardiovascular problems. The move backfired. To satisfy his cravings, my father took to picking up nearly-smoked butts off the road and deriving pleasure from the one or two puffs still left in each butt. When the local shopkeeper reported this development to us, our knee-jerk reaction was to worry about our social image. When that concern subsided, we worried about him picking up an infection. We wanted to do something about that. We removed the cigarette embargo, but that didn't curb his newly-acquired habit. So we reimposed the embargo and my mother tried to accompany him on his evening walks. Easier said than done. He still walked at a Gandhian pace, whereas my mother couldn't. 'I'll do the needful,' I told her. One evening, I accompanied him, huffing and puffing to keep up with him, feeling proud that he was still so fit. It was during this walk that my father's condition taught me my next lesson:
'How ridiculous am I being?' I thought. 'What am I trying to control here? The will of another human being? And why? Okay, let's assume the worst happens and he contracts an infection. We'll take care of him. I don't want to live within this hypothetical fear.' With that, I turned and returned home.
I didn't realize it yet, but I was beginning to accept my father for who he was, thereby acquiring the strength to accept who he will soon become. In the longer run, this translated into an acceptance of others for who they were. I'm not talking about resignation or a passive acceptance. I'm talking about proactive acceptance, one of the keys to harmonic relationships. I wonder if I'd have learnt this lesson in a less confronting context.

Again, the best time is NOW

Around this time, my mother had her own epiphany:
'The doctors say he will not be fit for travel soon. In that case, I want to have my fill of traveling right now.'
So off she went. During the next few months, she visited relatives in faraway places, attended every family function and also embarked on a pilgrimage that took her to UP, Bihar and Nepal. My father accompanied her throughout. It wasn't easy, but my mother managed those trips stoically.
Through this process, my mother learnt not to postpone cherished goals. The best time to accomplish them was NOW. Thanks to her, I too learnt the same lesson.

Fears are teachers

By now, my father's mental health was deteriorating at an alarming pace. He was forgetting a million nouns and verbs each passing day. He still enjoyed recounting the few episodes of his past that he still remembered, but his narration was getting less coherent and more hurried.
On the plus side, he was self-censoring his walks. During the initial phase of the diagnosis, he used to travel at least 5km away from home. Each day, he would take a different route, certain of making his way back. As time passed, he reduced the distance he traveled from home. A little later, he took to walking only along the most familiar route. By mid-2008, he had decided not to venture any farther than the neighbourhood park. When we realized that he was making these adjustments himself, we felt relieved. What amazed me, however, is that he never stopped going out on walks.
Through his behaviour, he taught me to learn from my fears without succumbing to them altogether. Later, as I studied the art of counseling and better understood the role emotions play in our lives, it was easy for me to look at every emotion as a potential teacher. What were my emotions telling me about myself? What could I learn from them? Nowadays, I ask myself this question each passing day.

Inspiration was always at hand

Today, my mother inspires me. That wasn't always the case. There was a time when I thought that she was an unadventurous, timid woman; a person filled of regrets. Despite being an ace student, she was not allowed to pursue higher studies and she blamed her family for that. This tendency to blame, I felt, was a recurring aspect of her personality.
Little did I know that she was just waiting for an opportunity to expand as a human being and show the world what a glorious person she really is.
That opportunity was provided by my father's condition. Like me, she was shocked by the diagnosis. But she recovered quicker than me and began expanding her capacities. She asked me to research on the disease so that she could be mentally prepared for the future. The internet held horror stories for us, but she chose not to be horrified.
'I will not send him to a Home,' she declared with finality. I bowed down to her decision. After all, she was the primary caregiver. Therefore, I experienced only a fraction of the distress she did. If she could cope with my father's disease, so could I.
Five years after the diagnosis, she took a radical decision.
'I'm relocating to our hometown with your father. You need to rebuild your life and you can't do that if you have one eye on your father and me at all times.'
I was touched. Since I was dealing with this reality at home, I had almost ostracized myself from society. I didn't socialize too much. Didn't go out on dates. Didn't explore any future options. I was frustrated, and feeling resentful towards my father. Those resentments were eerily similar to the ones I felt as a teenager. What surprised me, however, was that my mother understood my mixed feelings without any explicit communication.
'Just find a suitable place of residence for your father in our hometown,' she said. 'I'll take care of the rest.'
Three years after this move, my mother has delivered on her promise. She rediscovered the joy of belonging to a familiar culture and setting whereas my father has taken to the semi-rural surroundings like a duck to water. As his behaviour becomes more challenging, she is rising to the challenge. I visit them as much as I can and use many tricks to determine if my mother is secretly bitter. I haven't found any trace of that yet. All I unearth is an amazingly inspiring woman who still sees a husband in my father. 'What trouble can your father give me? Look at him. Like a blessed child. I am perfectly happy.'
Without my mother's largesse and inner growth, I certainly wouldn't have achieved the breakthroughs I did in the past three years. I have used the time to explore more and come to embrace my life.
And all this happened because I was born to the most amazing woman in the world. Would I have realized this truth were it not for my father's condition?

Love is the unconquerable emotion

Last month, my cousin lost his father. He's more a brother than a cousin. His parents live a stone's throw away from mine. So when I traveled with him for the funeral, I also was being asked by circumstances to look at my father anew. How would I feel if he died?
Before getting to that question, there were practical considerations to be addressed. Right now, my father can't distinguish between a funeral and a movie premiere. He was bound to behave inappropriately and perhaps sneak out, making us chase after him. Since my mother and I were responsible for important chores, there was no option but to keep my father locked at home. Ergo, I met him late on the night I reached my hometown. Many outstation guests had come for the sombre event and some of them would be staying at our place. As is natural with an Alzheimer's patient, this development disturbed my father. Shaken out of his placid routine and unable to accept the ambiguity of the situation, he behaved like one would expect him to behave. How did I respond? I lost my temper. Although I knew that he would not understand a word of my reprimand, I reprimanded him nonetheless. Selfishly, I was expunging my own emotions, no matter what.
Here's where my father reiterated his most important lesson. I had been exposed to this lesson before, but never so powerfully.
You see, Alzheimer's patients do not remember what happened ten minutes ago. They have this enviable gift of burying the past, as if it didn't happen at all. So, two days after my reprimand, after the heat of the situation had abated, as I was taking leave of my parents, my mother hugged me tight, wept a bit, and applied vibhuti on my forehead. My father's reaction to this show of affection:
'Good! Very good!'
Pointing to the vibhuti, indicating that it wasn't prominent enough, he went to the kitchen, got some more and applied it with fervour.
'Good! Very good!' he repeated.
I hugged him with all my might. He responded to my embrace. In that precious moment, I got my father back in my life. Fully. Wholly. Not just as a notion or theory. In that moment, he was my caring father again. Was he waiting for this unadulterated embrace all these years? His face showed no resentment, no regrets. It was radiant with joy.
In that same moment, I realized two important lessons:
1) I had never lost my father in the first place &
2) Love is the only universal emotion. Because innocent children and innocent Alzheimer's victims understand only love.

There are things I don't tell myself unless I'm piss drunk. Like I am now.
At such times, it becomes easier to think of her. The love of my life. She's five years old. Well, she will be soon.
I normally write these sordid pieces in a secretive drunken diary. I'm vaguely aware that I'm facing a blogspot editor now. Doesn't matter, does it? Certainly doesn't. It could be unrequited love at this point in time. But surely, surely, there's something called the genetic pull? Surely requited love is around the corner? I've been living my life on that assumption. I work the kind of hours that would put the President of the You-Nighted-States to shame. I don't normally think of her. Not even when my PC boots and I see her propped on my shoulder on my desktop. I quickly launch an application and enter my day. But lately, I'm beginning to think about the other side. The person responsible for the chasm. The person who feels so indignant that she's convinced herself she's Lady Liberty, dispensing justice with her swathe-creating scales.
Damn her for playing Goddess. She has no right. And one day, the love of my life will understand this too.

Je t'aime Amelie

What happens when a resourceful introvert decides to become the Madonna of the Unloved? You find Amelie, another great piece of poetry from the French film industry.
I've watched Amelie a good many times already (twice in the past 24 hours) and this has made me ponder over its many cinematic elements that connect so powerfully with me. The connection begins as soon as I see Audrey Tautou on the screen. Composed on the outside, seething with passion inside, that's Audrey playing Amelie. She doesn't speak about herself unless cornered for a response, but the camera captures her every nuanced emotion. It speaks of her dysfunctional childhood and her fierce determination to hold on to hope and goodness. It conveys her rich inner world - a world that can belong only to the shy. It captures her yearning for justice, romance and even the elusive "happily ever after". It follows her as she manipulates her immediate world - and the people who populate it - using subtle yet intricate means.
The two central characters - Amelie and the camera - pivot the narrative in refreshingly unexpected directions. The dialogues make love to life and Paris. The plot explores the seed of bravery underneath every shrub of cowardice and vice versa.
It all falls into an unmistakable pattern - we're all fallible, we're all divine. We have one life to live. Amelie chooses to live hers on her own terms. And one fine summery day, everything she wants comes within her grasp. She latches on.

2 wheels to love

Man loves Bike. Period.
Unless Man loves Car. But we shall not go there.
In this case, Man loves Bike. More so because Man has had Bike in his life longer than any romantic relationship. Under such circumstances, it's quite a challenge to keep the (man-machine) relationship on an even keel. I sometimes congratulate myself for not having given my bike a gender or a name. I refer to it simply as 652 - the concluding part of its license plate.
652 and I have had 12 adventurous years of togetherness. We were together when I was madly in love. And we're together now. All these years, we've put up with each other's idiosyncrasies. I tend to be amongst the faster moving traffic on the road (which, let's face it, depends quite a lot on 652). On its part, 652, though not moody as bikes go, has been downright obstinate. Its indicator lights have never operated as per the design, it still sputters between 44 and 45 kmph and it inevitably requires an annual de-carbonization.
Small price to pay for the kind of kinship this beautiful bike has accorded me. I've taken it deep into uncivilized territories, kept it baking under the sun for months on end, abandoned it during the years I was onsite, refused to keep it sparkling clean and not even bothered to service it more than once a year. Yet, it serves me faithfully. It's never left me stranded. It has stood patiently as I picked arguments with corrupt cops. And it's never skidded under my hold, although it has given timely and wobbly warnings on a couple of occasions.

Despite all that, I did something quite drastic to 652 last week. I changed its seat assembly. Yeah. 652 now has a brand new seat, not one with fragments of the sponge exposed. Frankly, I was getting tired of the squishy welcome my bum received whenever it rained. But now, when I sit on this bone-dry new seat, I feel a little sad. This isn't the seat that ferried that breathtaking woman in my life, and later, my cutie-pie daughter. This isn't the seat with memories.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I may not have given my bike a gender or a name, but I never doubted for a moment that it has a soul.