Author: socialwalkofficial

Monsoon, yet again!

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It is that time of the year again. This morning, I opened my eyes my eyes to heavy grey skies. Granted that the monsoon has officially entered India about a month ago. But just like a painting whose beauty cannot be appreciated at the beginning, and develops gradually over time, so also the monsoon!

After one wave of heavy rains, its fury had abated for sometime. Giving room for the green to bloom.

I feel that the rains have moods and feelings. And so also, the place where it rains. For example, I have experienced the rain in London. (Thinking about it, that’s the only country apart from India,where I have experienced the rain). London looks gloomy, upset and sort of ill when it rains. As if it is in a surly mood.

But in India, it is a different story. The rain positively makes everything bloom. And glow. And happy. And Vibrant. I could go on. The green seems to materialize from anywhere and everywhere. Like the cracks between the road and in the walls of dilapidated buildings. Like the green layer of moss that grows on the zinc sheet roofing. Entwined, on the electric poles. On the barks of half dead rotting tree trunks.

Different shades of green. Literally like a “habba” as they say in kannada. A festival of sorts. Celebrating the arrival of the rains.

Granted that persistent rains have some associated nuisance value too. Especially in a city.Think dirty pavements, dengue ridden puddles, the wet smell of clothes which refuse to dry and muddy footprints on your just mopped floor.

But just getting out of the city, you experience a seachange in the way you enjoy the rain. Pristine green countryside, green expanse of farms and fields extending into the horizon and waterfalls abound.

All you feel like is to cycle to some place far far away, settle down under some random tree, listen to good music and watch the rain kiss the earth. Bliss!

Enjoy the pics and have a great weekend!

Picture perfect- a photo blog of Ladakh.

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It’s been over a month since I went to Ladakh, but its spell does not seem to show signs of abating anytime soon. The minute I get some time on my own, I end up closing my eyes and reliving its beauty.Dragging the memories out from the crevices of my brain and savouring it, repeatedly,like a cow chewing cud! Ladakh is a phenomenally photogenic place. Even the most basic camera can capture frames so amazing that you end with a false sense of pride as a photographer. Sharing with you, a few of my favorite sights.

  1. The view of the Sangam.
The sangam of the Indus and Zanskar.

The sight of the River Indus converging with the River Zanskar is breathtaking. The Indus coming from China,a bright turquoise green ribbon, abruptly merges with the muddy brown of the Zanskar. Every sangam that I have seen has been replete with a temple, priests and is invariably polluted. What makes this sangam special, is that it is free of all trappings. Absolutely. There is nothing around save a small building which doubles up as a canteen and a ticket counter for rafting.

2. Each and every view during the one hour rafting.

Though most people sign up for the more exciting and adventurous wild water rafting, I totally recommend the slower variety. Just gliding over the Zanskar listening to the rhythmic splish splash of the oars, gazing at the huge mountains, maneuvering the sharp turns between the crevices of the mountains and experiencing the otherwise absolute silence is an unforgettable experience.

Gliding away along the Zanskar

3. Nubra valley.

The dunes of Nubra.



An ice cold and picturesque stream in the heart of the valley.

Descending from the Khardungla Pass, is a place akin to the mythical Shangri-La. You are suddenly witness to a valley which is breathtakingly beautiful and full of natural treasures as well as manmade ones! The grey sand dunes of Nubra are home to the Bactrian camels (or the double humped ones) which were a part of the famous Silk Route.

The accommodation at Nubra is given in luxury tents. Having never camped before, this makes for an interesting experience, though the tents were actually more luxurious than many hotels! What makes the stay great is the view that greets you at any time of the day or night. The view of the huge hundred foot Buddha atop the mountains or the view of a million stars in the inky black of the night, it seems as though you are caught in some wonderful dream which you do not ever want to wake up from.

My first experience of camping.

4. The Diskit monastery.

The travel brochures often show a picture of the Diskit monastery covered in snow. What they do not show is the fact that the monastery is perched atop a huge cliff edge,which seems near impossible to climb up on.And appears quite forbidding. As though the monks meant for us mere mortals, to stay away from its hallowed portals. Home to thousands of monks,it also gives a view of the huge Future Buddha who can be seen in his full splendor right across from its windows. What a sight it must be to wake up to!

Wonder how they even built this place!
To get things in perspective,the tiny Budha on top is actually a hundred foot tall, and the tiny yellow you spot across, is the beginning of the Diskit monastery!



Another view of Diskit

Already, tourism in Ladakh has increased exponentially over the years. Unfortunately, the concept of responsible tourism has not. Hope people visiting this pristine land realize the importance of leaving it exactly the way it is, for others to enjoy its beauty!

Have a beautiful weekend.

Describing the indescribable- Pangong Tso

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There are times in our life, when we are left searching for words to fill in a near adequate description. And failing. Pangong Tso, is one such experience. Whether to call it a lake or an experience is confusion enough. No adjective is adequate enough to describe the sight of it or the over whelming feeling that goes with it. Yet, let me try my best to tempt everyone to get rid of any inhibitions and get going on the next flight to Leh, before you get too old to combat the altitude sickness!

Not a journey meant for the queasy or soft bummed, a five hour drive on one of the scariest and weirdest roads lead you to Pangong Tso (by the way, ‘tso’ is lake in Ladakhi- and I really love the way it sounds, so Tso it is!). Weirdest because, the landscape changes from one extreme to the other within the span of a few kilometers.

You just get used to seeing endless barren brown mountains, when with the sudden flick of nature’s fingers, you see really rocky ones (the kind that scare you of an avalanche). This is followed by snow capped peaks near the Changla pass, which is then replaced by dusty ones which blow sand storms. Suddenly, from nowhere are green closed valleys with boggy streams, which are home to handsome, sleek stallions –right in the middle of nowhere leading to nowhere! The valley then turns into a grey sandy desert followed by another green stretch filled with half mongoose half dog like creatures called marmots!Phew!

Marmots!
Boggy streams, with the horses far away!

The weather is equally quirky- as if playing with us! One moment you are huddled in sweaters with the windows of the car drawn up to the next, when you are fanning yourself hard with the sleeve of your sweater and then suddenly you are wishing fervently that you have not left your windcheater behind in the hotel!

The only solace all through the journey is provided by the driver stopping over at a small joint for some very much needed and equally yummy honey ginger tea near the Paagal Naala bridge( apparently called so, owing to the difficulty in assessing  the moods of the stream!).

Just when you are resigned to watching the whole spectrum of browns around you-BAM-you are zapped with a sudden sparkle of vibrant blue visible from between the mountains. A blue that is so dazzling that it blinds- the first sight of Pangong between the mountains.

Pangong means “High Grassland Lake” in Tibetian. Situated between three lands, India, China and Tibet, we get only one third of the lake which then flows into Chinese territory. The line of Control runs somewhere in between the 134 kilometer long lake which is almost five kilometers at its broadest and situated about 14270 feet above sea level.

Seeing Pangong lake can turn an atheist into a staunch believer in God. I say this because, though most things appear to have a scientific backing, there are things which are so extra ordinary that they almost seem impossible.

Take for instance the fact that it is a SALT water lake! Apparently because there is no outlet for the water,  and so salt deposits have built up over the years.

Or the fact that though there are almost NO fish or aquatic creatures in the lake, there are hordes of Brahminy ducks, geese and sea gulls cackling around  looking extremely well fed and healthy! What do they even eat???

Or the fact that the lake even got formed, because Ladakh gets almost no rain! So how did so much water happen to be?

And the best  lies in the changing colors of the lake which very much looks like the shade card of asian paints. Suddenly vibrant blue to suddenly green to turquoise and then a moody angry grey in a span of two hours –a visual feast.

I can count atleast five shades of blue in this pic!

You suddenly realize that you are really miniscule in nature’s scheme of things, and begin to understand the vastness of the universe! Though there were a minimum of two hundred tourists around, there was such a sense of tranquility. The others seem so far away and no sound reaches you apart from the soft lapping of the crystal clear waters on the shore.

The only regret about the trip was that we could not stay back to see the sunrise or the sunset, which are supposed to be spectacular! And the fact that, at the beginning of the summer, the lake is still frozen enough that you can have dinner sitting on it (if you are willing to risk a frost bitten back side).

Nevertheless, Pangong Tso, seems as close to heaven as it gets…or probably is actually a small piece of heaven that God sent for us as a sample! Truly, the indescribable!

Are we treating the right person??

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Doctor Diaries….

Each department of medicine has its own challenges. If it is long tedious hours in emergency medicine, the unexpectedness in surgery or obstetrics, or the sense of futility which sometimes goes with oncology, I feel that in general, doctors have these “times” where you really start to wonder whether you are doing the right thing!

There are many such unique challenges which belong to the realm of psychiatry, when as a consultant, you feel as if you are bound by some invisible shackles which prevent you from doing the best for your patient.

Mental illhealth has always been considered with suspicion, even by some of the most intelligent brains in the world, mainly because of its slippery definitions. Also because of the fact that there are no diagnostic tests which can surely classify a patient as mentally ill. Other than the obviously aggressive or flagrantly abnormal patient, most times,  we need to tease out the the history from many of their kith and kin to arrive at a diagnosis by circumstantial evidence aka Sherlock Holmes!

And when we do so, many a times, we end up realizing that we may be, cut that, we ARE trying to treat the wrong person!

Let me elucidate…

Take the case of a woman who has been referred because of a near lethal attempt at deliberate self harm( which is just a fancy name for attempted suicide). The woman, on enquiry, confesses that she is tired of her life, and one of the main cause is the unnecessary amount of suspicion which the husband has developed, in part because of his alcohol habit. He does not allow her to talk with her friends, has made her give up the job she loved and beats her up when intoxicated. Her maternal family, expectedly tells her that she has to “adjust”. So here she is.

Take another example of a child who is sullen, angry and puts zero efforts into his study. The father who is a teacher explains that his son is so ‘dumb’ that he needs to be spanked everyday before he sits down to do his homework. He also explains that he gets so frustrated with his son that, on occasion, he has branded him with a hot iron for his follies. The son was diagnosed to be having learning disability.

In another case, the son who has been a patient of childhood schizophrenia gently chides his mother, who has accompanied him, not to interrupt me multiple times before I complete even one sentence of what I say. “Calm down, Ma” he says and looks at me resignedly. He has probably experienced this phenomena all his childhood, and I can pity him, for I am already exhausted by her!

Such situations are tricky.

If I go on the offensive and tell the relative that he or she is the one who actually needs help, they may dissappear with the patient and never turn up again! Such are the follies of a stubborn ego. Intent on proving the other person wrong and unconsiously expecting some praise for an apparent  sacrifice which has largely gone unappreciated.In the process, I lose out on helping a person who genuinely needs the help which I am qualified to give. Granted it may not completely cure him, but atleast I can lend a much needed listening ear and psychological balm.

On the contrary,when  I  go with the version given by the relative, and reach for my prescription pad, immediately, I see a look of betrayal in my patient’s eye. “Et tu, doc” it seems to say, “I knew no one would understand”. I feel so uncomfortable when I see this look. As though I have let him down badly.

So what we do is, to talk to both of them separately; tell both of them that we understand their point of view, and other’s mistake; and promise to help as much as we can! Sounds devious?? It does,but it also is the most honest answer, according to me.

It works quite a few times, mainly because, as  people, we have real fragile egos. If someone tells us outright,that we are wrong, we suddenly become extra defensive .It takes gentle prodding and many sessions of talking for them to grudgingly accept the fact that they may have played a part in making their dear one sick! Then, we have struck gold! They are amneable to suggestion, and if necessary, medication.And slowly we begin to see a steady improvement in the patient’s condition.

But, ever so often, this does not happen. Despite subtle suggestions, followed by obvious ones, some refuse to change. And sometimes become worse, for they miscontrue that the patient has complained about them. And the patient’s eyes steadily lose their lustre.

I know that we are human, and we can only win some and etc. etc., but each time I write out a presciption for a patient who is so, because of someone else, I still cringe a little at the unfairness of it all.

Why are we treating the wrong person???

Have any of you encountered such situations?

A little bit of empathy- Doctor diaries.

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Doctor Diaries….


Monotony brings in boredom. I believe that this happens to the best of us, in whichever profession we happen to be involved in, and so medicine is no exception. Though we start of as idealistic, bright eyed, young doctors, over the years, we get jaded due to tiredness and the sheer numbers that we treat. There is hardly any time to think. Rather, we work more by force of habit, than the passion that we started of with.

Prof. B.M. Hegde, the former Vice Chancellor of MAHE University was often known to quote, that as doctors, we need to cure rarely, care often and comfort always.  But in the mad juggle of life, responsibilities and work, we sometimes lose out on the sensitivity which we need to show the patient, rather than just treating him.

As a mental health professional, the number of times that I have had to diagnose a life threatening illness is less as compared to many other branches of medicine. Rather, most of the illnesses in my bag, fall in the category of life altering. Nothing remains the same after the diagnosis is made. Both for the patient and the family. A lot of times, this causes morbidity in ways which are unseen, but cause a lot of suffering. Decisions that fall outside realm of medicine, like long term medications to be given to patients who are not so willing to swallow them, the crashing of dreams which the parents would have built for their children, the change in roles and responsibilities when the bread winner of the family falls sick, the insecurity of a relapse, the frustrations of the family which work adversely on patient outcome and the societal shaming – all of which are invisible to us, but very much a part and parcel of the illness. And as it is invisible, it often becomes easy to brush off conveniently under the carpet.

It was on one of such days when I diagnosed schizophrenia in a seventeen year old boy. The mother  broke down and started crying copiously. After customarily consoling her, I happened to remark that there were others who had worse forms of the disease, and so should consider herself lucky. To which she replied that maybe it was so, but she was crying not only for her son, but also for breakdown of her life which was painstakingly constructed for the past so many years. She told me that she had to cry so that she could grieve the loss, the burden and her son, and only then she could accept it. She asked for permission to cry, because she could not do it in front of her son or family. Once done, she walked away quietly, only to return for the next visit with a set of questions regarding how her son and family could cope better.

This small incident made me rethink my qualities as an effective counselor. As a doctor, I had thought it important to treat the disease, but forgot about the patient and his family. I could have consoled myself saying that the lack of time was the cause of this heartlessness, but it somehow seemed unforgivable. There are many instances that I have seen, where there are doctors with no super specialty degrees or  swanky clinics, but where the Que for visiting the doctor is serpentine. What they call “Kai guna” in kannada, must be the magic of sharp observation, unhurried questioning and a profound sense of empathy used together as treatment. This combination must be more potent than all the medications and hi fi equipment put together.

From then on, I resolved to spend a little more time with my patients than just enough to spot the diagnosis. And the results have been nothing short of remarkable. Now I have extended families in my patients. The caretakers know that they have a shoulder to cry on and are hence more comfortable. Each milestone they have achieved becomes partly mine. And when the seventeen year old passed his class twelve with a first class, I got home a huge box of yummy mysurpak. There seems to be no monotony anymore.

Mid Life Crisis??

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What do you do when at the ripe old age of thirty seven, you suddenly develop feelings of confusion about the decisions that you have made in your life?? When you develop cravings, of wanting to do so many things, which in your twenties, you believed that there was enough time to do, but now, realize that you don’t. Have. That . Much. Time. After. All. When you realize that you had not bargained that the amount of time you spent in setting up a cozy home, bringing up kids and settling into your career would slowly, imperceptibly, chip away from the huge block of time, that you took for granted. Where you had planned for a grander scheme of things.

When I read things on facebook which say “Instead of wondering when your next vacation is, probably you should set up a life that you do not need escaping from!” and put this under the heading of “Inspirational quotes”, I want to literally throw something at them!

Nowadays,I seem to be always wanting to escape and do something else. I crave for Saturdays so I can fantasize about Sundays. I crave vacations. I crave for quiet time with my book exactly at the same time when my daughter turns on her needy voice. I crave for work when there is less, and crave for time to laze when there is too much work. Basically, I seem to be in ‘always wanting to escape from here mode’!My normality comes from thinking that this feeling of wanting to do something else and something more, all the time, is what everyone feels and hence, also comes under the heading of what normal should be.

If that sounds strange and funny, coming from a psychiatrist,so be it. I idle browsed  the ever helpful google and found a name for it. Mid life crisis. Assuming that I will die at 74, its just about the right time to develop one. Thank you google, for making me a part of a big cult of people who are, to put it simply, confused. And trying to find some way out of it!

And so, I decided that when in confusion, the best way out was full scale inertia. From hopping from one task to another maniacally, I went to vegetate mode. Not completely. But just doing the basic amount of work that I need to do, and then exist. Hence, the lack of blog posts. Because I am willing myself to slowly clear the confusion that exists in my mind. So much confusions that I was even finding myself making to do lists in my dreams!

Till inspiration finds me, or me it,  my grand plan to stay sane,is to wake up, work and just be. And if some important work comes in between, just do it. Or a summer coming up, just plan a vacation and be done with it. Or if there is a request for a talk, just take it. Or a blog post brimming up into my conscious, just write it. A recipe waiting to be tried, just cook it. A lovely unputdownable book, just read it. Some fun time with the kids, just have it. A new hobby, just try it. An interesting case, just discuss it….Aaagrhhh..I’m back to square one!!

The REUNION- This one’s for all my batch mates at KMC.

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us –then


Exactly about a year ago, I read an e mail in my inbox which announced the reunion of batch 96 of KMC, Mangalore.

Reunions have a tendency to make me feel old and gossipy. Somewhat like sixtieth birthday celebrations or golden jubilee wedding anniversary celebrations! Where a whole bunch of people meet up to discuss their lives and those juicy tidbits about others’, regaling antics of their precocious children and humble bragging about their career milestones.

I was happy enough seeing face book posts of my batch mates and knowing what they are doing in their lives. Did I actually need to meet them ?? I was mostly too shy in college to  develop deep friendships with a lot of my class mates. So, would I be really missed?  This made me skeptical about attending the reunion. Maybe I would not gel with most of my old college mates, I felt. We have moved on.

Fifteen years. A lot of water under the bridge.  Old memories, some good ones and some others not so much. Friendships –some tended to, some long forgotten. Lives which have moved on, treated and helped many a patients, formed new relationships, forged new bonds and trudged ahead.Hmm..

But somehow, Satwik’s emails did the trick. Over the year, slowly, silently, memories which were buried under a mountain of work and family responsibilities started creeping up on me, startling and  giving me fuzzy feelings of warmth in an otherwise dreary day.

I still remember the day when I was a bespectacled gawky teenager coming out of the CET cell, a little frazzled, a little victorious and a little bit nervous. Finally, one and a half years of hard back breaking work had borne fruit and I was in! Kasturba Medical College was my destiny for the future.

It was my first time away from home, leaving behind my huge joint family, and this in itself, was unnerving. The rumors of ragging in college were scary. There was this huge cauldron of emotions boiling within me, a delicious mix of apprehension, fear, elation, the excitement of getting into medical school, and sadness about leaving behind my friends and family.

Expectedly, the memories of five years that I spent in college are irreplaceable. The  formalin reeking dissection halls, the old lecture halls, muggy mornings spent in the huge, sweltering, crowded wards of Wenlock and Lady Goshen hospitals whose old ceiling fans with painfully slow moving blades seemed to mock our sweating discomfort, maggi in the canteen, getting screwed during the clinical postings and giving a treat at the end of it, the waterless bathrooms in Nandagiri hostel, late night study sessions  liberally dosed with popcorn and maggi for sustenance, the phone booth, which was our life line to the family back home (this was a time before cell phones invaded us),the interclass competitions, the library at reader’s delight, and the horrible mess food (remember the yum yum cutlet, which was anything but!!) are literally etched into my subconscious.

KMC accepted me, idiosyncrasies and all. And added a few more to my person. Like talking about KMC and how great it was, all the time, to my better half, till he knew all my anecdotes by heart!  The sense of belonging with my college is something which I cannot not get rid of. This was after all, my world away from home for five long years. Maybe I am partial to my college or probably this is the way people feel about their alma mater, but I, unflinchingly believe that KMC, Mangalore was the best and the most learning experience of my life. Anyway, I’m digressing.

Back to the reunion.  So, after discussions back and forth with my bestie, and some gentle prodding by my husband, I finally took the plunge. I was in. And did not know what to expect. Ours was a small class of 56, and almost all of them have reached places in life. Would they have changed, I wondered? After all, responsibilities, position, stature and money is known to cause a personality change in many!

And therefore in River Roost Resort, (the venue for our reunion), I landed with trepidation and doubt, both of which got kicked in the butt within the first fifteen minutes of my landing there. The next two days were spent laughing so much that my cheeks hurt, and forgetting to call back obsessively to check on my kids, which I am guilty of doing when I am not at home!

Getting to know my batch mates all over again was much more fun than what it was so many years ago. I felt we were more mature and knew ourselves better than we did before. There was a quiet confidence that each one of us had grown into. There were some of us who threw up unexpected surprises by reaching heights which no one had expected, some others who were consistently superb, and others who were multifaceted enough to juggle hobbies along with their profession. Even the ones with their own brand of quirks had found their comfy spot under the sun. The icing on the cake was that no one-not even one -had let go of their innate superb sense of humor and goofballness which made those two days the best ever.

The experience of getting two days sans responsibilities with my best and closest friends, laughing at inane jokes which no one else actually understood, and talking about  everything under the sun and beyond it, waking up to wanting to continue talking and not bother about anything else, reminded me of my days in hostel.

I was back again into a group where I seemed to belong, where my weirdness was an accepted part, and I could let my hair down(whatever is left of it!) and be! Just transport myself to those days where hope and hard work were the things we lived by, garnished generously with parties, fun trips and mills and boon!

My opinions about reunions have changed now. If anything, they made me feel much younger and happier. I returned home with a smile plastered on my face, and stayed insanely happy for the next few days. Maybe, this happens at all reunions, and therefore they go on!

A grateful thanks to the organizers who slogged to make it happen. And a big thanks to all the rest for making those two days memorable.   KMC 96, you are the best and please do stay that way!

Long live reunions !

PS: Leena, Im feeling blessed to post this on face book!!!:)) (sorry,an inside joke!).

us –now

Doctor Diaries.

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There are certain life experiences which come to us, courtesy our professions. Some of them make good dinner table conversations, some put a smile on our face years after they occur and some make us feel a deep pain inside. As doctors,  we see many incidents which have the power to move us beyond what we thought was possible. And such incidents make us richer, wiser and sometimes more cautious. I have always wanted to share a few of my experiences as a doctor first, a psychiatrist next, about how we see the good, the bad, the ugly and the hilarious as a part of our everyday life in the hospital. Hence ,the doctor diaries.

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Of when my idealism died.

Off late, medical professionals  have been viewed more with suspicion and wariness than respect and love. We often hear stories about how doctor so and so ripped off a poor patient, or performed an unnecessary surgery or followed some unethical practice.

As much as I know of most people in our profession, they seem hard working to such an extent that they have no time to even defend themselves in times of crisis. In a day and age, where most media bytes  go to a person who voices the highest decibel levels, we seem to have missed the bus by a mile. A lot of us are excellent clinicians, but poor communicators. Mostly, not our fault. We were never taught that our practice, would one day, turn out to be a war zone with land mines, which we had to gingerly tread through. Do not get me wrong. It is not everyday that we go to work like scared rabbits. We enjoy what we do, and how we do it. But on occasion, fear does seep into our bones. This was one such time.

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon broken by an earth shattering cry, that would have woken the dead. All of us in the surrounding vicinity came out on the roads to see what had happened. What we saw was not a pretty sight. There were two people who had accidentally got electrocuted, lying on the road literally fuming at the mouth. There was this huge crowd gathered around. The stench of burnt flesh was overpowering. I live just across from the hospital that I work in. By the time I made my way through the crowd, I saw that two of our hospital staff had already lifted the victims bodily,and put them into an auto rickshaw.They drove on to a tertiary care center five minutes away for ICU care. The whole episode must have taken around five to seven minutes at most. I was impressed by the immediate action taken by our orderlies and was on my way to praise them, when I was in for a rude shock.

One of the people from the crowd asked us why we had not taken care of the patient. They started accusing us of poor first aid. We appeared confused at first. They must have taken it as a sign of weakness or guilt.

The cause for our confusion, was the fact that, apart from having a time machine to do the needful, we had been as fast as we humanly could. Two of our staff had rushed to find autos on a deserted road to ferry the patients, while two others had helped them into the vehicle and gone to the hospital with them. According to us, we had done all we could and more.Apparently not.

According to the leader of the mob, we needed to check the pulse of the patient before we put him into the auto. The other claimed that we should have done first aid inside our hospital premises before shifting him to an ICU.

We tried reasoning out that time was of utmost importance. That there was no need to check the pulse when the patient looked alive and was breathing. And we shifted him to a tertiary care center only because we did not, as a facility catering to mental illness, have an ICU facility and ventilator support.

Seemingly, all our explanations fell on deaf ears. The crowd kept chanting that we should have checked the pulse. On one level, I knew that they were just out to create a scene. Maybe the shock of seeing a person burn was too much to take. Maybe, they had no idea what to do in case of such a situation.

But on another level, we were scared. Upset that our good intentions were being slandered unnecessarily. Scared that they may abuse us physically.Are really really worried as to why understanding such a simple explanation seemed impossible to them.

Anyway, after a while, for lack of any other logical form of argument apart from the “pulse”, the crowd dispersed. But the hurt remained. That we, (especially our hospital staff who courageously helped the victims without a thought that they may have got electrocuted themselves too) were considered villains even after selflessly doing our best.

It did not matter that half the crowd was totally drunk, and had not moved a muscle to help all through the episode.What did matter, was that a scene was created. And that we looked like the bad people.

In the pat two years, in the small city that I live in, I have seen at least  four hospitals getting ransacked and damaged for some alleged negligence on the part of a doctor, which has later on been disproved. I have participated in rallies held to protect the rights of doctors. The district administration has given us a list of laws and provisions to help us protect ourselves. We now have cctv’s in our hospitals.Despite all of these, the sense of disillusionment remains.

Sort of like, when you have actually done your homework, but forgotten the book at home. The teacher does not believe you, but you want to be believed oh so badly. Standing in front of the class looking like the culprit pains you bad. The pain, that neither your teacher or your friends had the good sense to believe you.Submitting the homework book next day does not really ease your pain. The damage has been done!

And so also in this case.Life  moved on. Work resumed the next day. But every time I pass by the place on the road, I feel a physical pain deep inside me. One for the victim, who was a young man with small children. Two, for my idealism, which died a more cruel death that day.

Cycling in Pondicherry

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There are certain memories in life which stay with you vivid and clear. You remember even the smallest details of the memory as distinctly as if it just happened. Oxford, UK was one such memory. I was hardly eleven at that time, but it still made an enormous impact. The majestic stone buildings with ivy climbing on to the walls, the mild chill in the air, people casually walking into cafes with satchels slung on their backs, neat tidy rows of houses which looked similar to each other,just as though they had stepped off the rack of a toy store, cobbled roads, and CYCLISTS.

In India, the only people whom I knew cycled were us school kids, and people who could not afford a better means of transport! That cycling would be a preferred vehicle of choice for professors, students who actually owned cars to ferry them back to their hometown and even really old people, was something I could not fathom.The way they locked their cycles with chains to the parking place oh so casually impressed me. And to know that they called their cycles “bikes”,a word, which in India meant a motor cycle, made it sound ever so cool!

We generally outgrow most of the fetishes of our childhood as we mature, or so I believe. My love for cycling was something which stubbornly but secretly stuck on. Secretly because, generally and practically speaking in most towns of cities in India, we do not encounter doctors or bank managers or teachers or chartered accountants whiz away on their cycles for work. I am not saying this as a snob. It is just reality. And staying right across from the place where I work takes away from me, the freedom to rebel against this cliche!  On occasion, I have also had his fear of being branded as a “weird” shrink(I do worry about my practice, you see) if I did go against the norm! I also do not live in a place like Bengaluru, where cycling in super stylish cycling gear complete with a helmet and radium piping, would be considered cool. I would be stared at on the road, as if I were a two headed alien who had suddenly landed on this earth!

Hence, sadly,my love for the bicycle remained in the closet for long into my adulthood. I would vow to myself that, when I went to Amsterdam, I would cycle to my hearts content( maybe, going to Amsterdam would be so expensive that I could only afford to cycle across!).

Till, I went to Pondicherry. It was surprising to see cycling still existed as a prominent means of transport for both the young and the old, saree wearing aunty to an expat!

Even more exited to hear of a cycling tour of Pondicherry, offered by Sita Cultural center which is a one stop shop for everything you want to do.From scuba diving to bollywood dancing to cooking lessons, this hole in the wall, blue, building which I failed to find despite whizzing by it thrice, is a hub for all adventure.

And so my adventure started at 6 in the morning with my guide Manisha and a cycle.

To start the day cycling into the small gullies of Pondicherry was not on my agenda when I went, but I really ended up enjoying my sojourn. Pondicherry is divided into a tamil quarter, a french quarter and a muslim quarter. I have no idea what the last quarter of the whole comprises of!Maybe the christian quarter(just to round off the national integration part).

And this is what I saw

Large houses built in Chettinad style with embroidery like wooden  panels adorning them. These were houses of Soldas, the Muslim tamils who worked in the Portugese army. They were given a dual citizenship, based on which most of the descendants are now staying in Europe, and come only in the month of July for trading in spice. Rest of the time, the houses are restored and maintained as they were hundreds of years ago!

That the buildings in Pondicherry are colour coded. For example, the Aurobindo institutes are grey in color, the Government buildings are yellow, the French buildings are orange and the like.

For the film buffs,this is the house where the crew of “The life of Pi” stayed during the shoot.

Are we parents killjoys??

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I remember reading “The battle hymn of a tiger mother” by Amy Chua, with mixed reactions and thoughts. The parenting methods described in the book seemed to me, quite harsh and rigid, with no thought whatsoever for the child’s needs, wants or attitudes. All that mattered was the parental opinion about what was good and what was not!

Last week,I had a difference of opinion(which is my label for a small tantrum) with my son regarding his badminton coaching. He was preparing hard for a tournament, and had just finished his written school tests. I knew he was worn out. But his coach had promised a practice session.

I am genuinely non pushy  in terms of achievements, but was desperate for him to go because I felt that the only way to reinforce his waning interest in badminton (after three years of practice sessions which weren’t leading to anything much)was to see other players and learn to be competitive.

Unfortunately, he did not feel so. He kept whining constantly that it was a Saturday, and he needed to read something and play football, that he would practice everyday thereafter, and why was the tournament on Children’s day(November 14th),one of  the fun days in his school and so on. And on. And on. Which finally got on my nerves.

And made me switch to my emotional blackmail mode. Of saying that if he was not interested , it would be better to quit rather than whine. And how I hated listening to his complaints after a hard day’s work. And we had given him so many opportunities,that so many other children did not have etc.

I caught myself. These were the exact things I advice parents coming to my consulting room not to do. And the path which I swore I would never ever take. And there I was, switching to autopilot blackmail parenting,  as soon as things did not go my way!

Parenting over the generations may have changed significantly, but there are certain things that have still remained the same.Especially, in Asian countries, parents still pride themselves in the achievements of their children, take credit for pushing them in the right direction and praise sparingly for fear of marring the motivation of the next achievement.  (Do read Arnab Ray’s(<http://greatbong.net/2015/08/25/desi-parents-and-their-expectations/&gt&gt; )

At the other end of the spectrum, are parents who believe that the sun rises and sets for the sole purpose of making their child rise and shine in this world. Their achievements are glorified, gilded and put out for display,making the kids paranoid about losing. Children who swing between this spectrum end up lost and confused.

Childhood memories of mine comprised of playing on the roadside, inventing a new past time for every summer holidays, and imaginative play when I would be a sari seller to bank manager to a film star-(all with the help of a battered yellow purse, a box full of tattered monopoly bank notes  and a pen).

But my children do not share the same freedom of time for free play. By the time they come back from school and their hobby classes, its time for homework, dinner, tv and bed. They no doubt play in school, but is that enough? I remembered reading a term called the “over scheduled child syndrome”, which pressurizes the child to over perform and kills its creativity.I did not want a tired child!

At the same time, as both my husband and I work and live in the heart of the city, we absolutely cannot let our kids loose on the roads without supervision. And the live in maid quits without a cable tv connection, so we cannot prevent excess tv time either.

So, how do I as a parent, make sure my child is well scheduled but not stressed, creative but not aimless and still retain my sanity. Seems like a tall order, doesn’t it!

Michael Thompson, a clinical psychologist and the author of “The Pressured Child,” says“As a general principle, there is a line between a highly enriched,interesting, growth-promoting childhood and an over scheduled childhood,” he said. “And nobody knows where that line is.”

And after reading up a lot about this, I came out consoled. The fact that there are other parents out there who face the same issues is comforting to an extent. And the summary of what I thought I could do goes like this:

So, though I did send my son over to badminton class that day, we made it up watching cartoons that night. And hopefully my son does not think of me as a tiger mother any more!

As long as my children seemed mostly happy with their routine, it was fine to breathe easy.

For the unscheduled play time, we could find some time together without any specific aim in mind, and do fun things that they wanted.Like not using the bat and ball that we had carried to the park, but just sit and play a game of looking at the people around and guessing their profession!

I would make time to actually listen to them, rather than paying halfhearted attention while looking at my whatsapp messages.

They were capable of handling multiple hobby classes.But I wouldn’t expect them to excel in every class that they went to. It was plain unreasonable.

As long as the activities were not dipping into their sleep or eat time, it was ok.

The activities were meant to enrich their personality but determine their self worth. As in,it was wrong to say”You are only as good as the prizes that you get!”

Just like they needed down time without an agenda, so did I. And when these times met, to have fun doing something impromptu, like dancing Gangnam style!

It is sensible to start hobby classes only after a certain age (psychologists recommend 8 to 12 years). Before this, children tend to be in the process of growing interests and that the interests may keep changing,needlessly frustrating us. One day skating, the next month guitar, and as soon as you have bought the guitar, football begins to look interesting!No point in starting so early that you have unnecessary memorabilia scattered all over your house and fights about “You do not stick to anything” between you and your child!