Sheila Matharu's Blog
May 23, 2017
Blinding justice
Should justice be blind? Or should our status, intelligence, contribution (real or potential) play a role in the punishment we receive after committing a crime?
I posed these questions after watching Gregory David Roberts' interview on Skavlan where he asked for the right to serve any prison sentence imparted to Odd Nerdrum. Arguing that a genius should not be sent to prison as this would rob the world of his talents, Roberts called for more creative prison sentencing.
There is no doubt that the prison system must be reformed. Jail should not break people, it should not be physically or psychologically abusive. Instead, it should rehabilitate them to society. Regardless, justice must be the same for all irrespective of talent, wealth, class, race, gender or religion. We must be judged on our crime, motive and character; any endowments we may (or may not) possess should not influence our punishment.
Recently, a similar debate arose following the case of Lavinia Woodward, a medical student at Oxford university. Reffering to her extraordinary ability, judge Ian Pringle QC was quoted by newspapers as postponing Lavinia's sentencing and suggesting possible jail evasion.
The details of Lavinia's case, reported with a certain amount of bias and omission, do not intrest me as much as the idea, in principle, that it might be acceptable for justice to discriminate based on factors that should not matter. Should we allow a surgeon to be sentenced more leniantely than a shopkeeper? What would that say about us as? Would such discrimination not question our equality as human beings? Would it not imply that we assign value to life based on its utility rather than for its own sake?
"Let justice be done though the heavens fall"
I posed these questions after watching Gregory David Roberts' interview on Skavlan where he asked for the right to serve any prison sentence imparted to Odd Nerdrum. Arguing that a genius should not be sent to prison as this would rob the world of his talents, Roberts called for more creative prison sentencing.
There is no doubt that the prison system must be reformed. Jail should not break people, it should not be physically or psychologically abusive. Instead, it should rehabilitate them to society. Regardless, justice must be the same for all irrespective of talent, wealth, class, race, gender or religion. We must be judged on our crime, motive and character; any endowments we may (or may not) possess should not influence our punishment.
Recently, a similar debate arose following the case of Lavinia Woodward, a medical student at Oxford university. Reffering to her extraordinary ability, judge Ian Pringle QC was quoted by newspapers as postponing Lavinia's sentencing and suggesting possible jail evasion.
The details of Lavinia's case, reported with a certain amount of bias and omission, do not intrest me as much as the idea, in principle, that it might be acceptable for justice to discriminate based on factors that should not matter. Should we allow a surgeon to be sentenced more leniantely than a shopkeeper? What would that say about us as? Would such discrimination not question our equality as human beings? Would it not imply that we assign value to life based on its utility rather than for its own sake?
"Let justice be done though the heavens fall"
May 14, 2017
Living in the past
'To live in the past' is an expression, often accompanied by negative connotations, used to describe those who spend 'excessive' amounts of time walking memory lanes. Focus on the present. Keep looking forward. Forgive and forget. We are told again and again that we should leave our past behind.
The past defines us; we live the world and understand ourseleves by reflecting on our experiences. I was reminded of this by Seneca's 'On the Shortness of Life', an essay recommended by an acquaintance during a casual conversation. Below, I include an extract about the past.
We struggle to revisit events coloured in shame, regret, anger or sadness. And yet, perhaps, it is these events which lead us to a deeper understanding of ourselves, catalysing directed change. We often fear reflection or fail to make time for it, but nothing is to be feared, everything is to be understood. As was said by Plato, an unexamined life, after all, is not worth living.
The past defines us; we live the world and understand ourseleves by reflecting on our experiences. I was reminded of this by Seneca's 'On the Shortness of Life', an essay recommended by an acquaintance during a casual conversation. Below, I include an extract about the past.
"Life is divided into three parts: past, present and future. Of these, the present is brief, the future doubtful, the past certain. For this last is the category over which fortune no longer has control, and which cannot be brought back under anyone's power. Preoccupied people lose this part; for they have no leisure to look back at the past, and even if they had it, there's no pleasure in recalling something regrettable. [...] Yet this is the part of our existence that is consecrated and set apart, elevated above all human vicissitudes and removed beyond fortune's sway, and harried by no poverty, no fear, no attacks of disease. This part is neither disrupted nor stolen away; our possession of it is everlasting and untroubled. Days are present only one at a time, and these only minute by minute; but all the days of time past will attend you at your bidding, and they will allow you to examine them and hold onto them at your will - something which preoccupied people have no time to do. It takes a tranquil and untroubled mind to roam freely over all parts of life; but preoccupied minds as if under the yoke, cannot turn and look backward. Their life therefore disappears into an abyss; and just as it does no good to pour any amount of liquid into a vessel if there is nothing at the bottom to receive and keep it, so it makes no difference how much time we are given if there is nowhere for it to settle, and it's allowed to pass through the cracks and holes of the mind."Our past, our story, shapes our identity. Shared history connects us to people and places. we feel pride and shame of those whose stories we consciously or unconsciously believe to be intertwined with our own.We feel patriotism, belonging, when the stories of our country men and women are ones we can relate to.
We struggle to revisit events coloured in shame, regret, anger or sadness. And yet, perhaps, it is these events which lead us to a deeper understanding of ourselves, catalysing directed change. We often fear reflection or fail to make time for it, but nothing is to be feared, everything is to be understood. As was said by Plato, an unexamined life, after all, is not worth living.
April 19, 2017
Meditations, Marcus Aurelius
"To refrain from imitation is the best revenge."
"[...] nothing is made worse or better by praise."
"Live not as though there were a thousand years ahead of you. Fate is at your elbow; make yourself good while life and power are still yours."
"[...] none of those things can injure me, for nobody can implicate me in what is degrading. Neither can I be angry with my brother or foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man's two hands feet or eyelids, or like the upper and lower rows of his teeth. To obstruct each other is against nature's law and what is irritation or aversion but a form of obstruction?"
"[...] nothing is made worse or better by praise."
"Live not as though there were a thousand years ahead of you. Fate is at your elbow; make yourself good while life and power are still yours."
"[...] none of those things can injure me, for nobody can implicate me in what is degrading. Neither can I be angry with my brother or foul of him; for he and I were born to work together, like a man's two hands feet or eyelids, or like the upper and lower rows of his teeth. To obstruct each other is against nature's law and what is irritation or aversion but a form of obstruction?"
April 8, 2017
No company is better than bad company.
As I drove home last weekend, or perhaps the weekend before, I happened to hear some of LBC's sex and relationship show.
An anxious 72-year-old woman called in to ask for advice on her relationship with a 46-year-old man. They had met online and had a virtual relationship. They had seen each other in person only twice in 10 years. They had been intimate during those encounters. He had promised they would meet again but had never made the effort. She knew he had been seeing other women; but despite wanting to end the relationship, she had found herself going back. She had been in a physically abusive relationship for 30 years in the past.
The presenter, Lucy Beresford, pointed out that whilst the caller's current relationship was not physically abusive, it was so in a different way. She asked the woman why she was still with that man, reminding her that being with someone who did not want to see her was not healthy. Perhaps, suggested Lucy, she had called that night because she was ready to move on.
I wonder, is loneliness better than bad company? Is it easier? Does it do us less harm? Leaving someone can be very difficult when there is no one else to fill that hole. It does not have to be a partner, it can be just a friend. Being alone is not easy. I suppose things are never black and white, there is some good with the bad and some bad with the good. Ultimately, when the bad outweighs the good, walking away becomes necessary to protect ourselves if we believe that the place we are walking to is better than the one we are leaving behind. But what if we don't?
I remember a friend expressing the worry of no one showing up at his funeral. 'What do you care? You won't be alive to see it!', I had replied obliviously. But I suppose I understand it now. The worry was of there being no one who loved him enough in life to want to honour him in death.
An anxious 72-year-old woman called in to ask for advice on her relationship with a 46-year-old man. They had met online and had a virtual relationship. They had seen each other in person only twice in 10 years. They had been intimate during those encounters. He had promised they would meet again but had never made the effort. She knew he had been seeing other women; but despite wanting to end the relationship, she had found herself going back. She had been in a physically abusive relationship for 30 years in the past.
The presenter, Lucy Beresford, pointed out that whilst the caller's current relationship was not physically abusive, it was so in a different way. She asked the woman why she was still with that man, reminding her that being with someone who did not want to see her was not healthy. Perhaps, suggested Lucy, she had called that night because she was ready to move on.
I wonder, is loneliness better than bad company? Is it easier? Does it do us less harm? Leaving someone can be very difficult when there is no one else to fill that hole. It does not have to be a partner, it can be just a friend. Being alone is not easy. I suppose things are never black and white, there is some good with the bad and some bad with the good. Ultimately, when the bad outweighs the good, walking away becomes necessary to protect ourselves if we believe that the place we are walking to is better than the one we are leaving behind. But what if we don't?
I remember a friend expressing the worry of no one showing up at his funeral. 'What do you care? You won't be alive to see it!', I had replied obliviously. But I suppose I understand it now. The worry was of there being no one who loved him enough in life to want to honour him in death.
March 27, 2017
On legalising drugs
When on his LBC show Maajid Nawas made the case for the legalisation of drugs, he argued that it would reduce crime and make economic sense.
Don't we want less people in our prisons, he asked his listeners. Prisons, it is known, are negative environments to be in and cost money to the taxpayer. Therefore, it is better to limit the number of people going to prison.
There is certainly a case for having better alternatives for those who are found to be guilty of drug possession. Prison, I agree, won't help them overcome addiction. It certainly will not facilitate rehabilitation in society. And there are some who argue that people imprisoned for minor crimes become more likely to commit graver offences once released.
A lot of organised crime revolves around the illegal trafficking of drugs, Maajid Nawas also argued. Legalising drugs would plummet their price putting a lot of criminal organisations out of work. I agree that legalising drugs will reduce their price and make it easier to control the market, but I also believe that there are many forms of trafficking and that organised crime will not diminish because of drug decriminalisation.
Whilst I accept many of Maajid's arguments, I remain against the legalisation of drugs. I believe legalising drugs would normalise their use and signal that we, as a society, see nothing wrong with it. To me, it is about recognising the devastating effects drugs have on people's lives.
The stigma currently attached to drugs serves an important purpose. It stops many people from using them. Easy availability, lower prices and a legal status would increase the number of consumers of these highly damaging and addictive substance. Can we really treat drug addiction so lightly? And who would be the most likely to use drugs?
Addiction degrades us. It makes it harder to rely on reason and turns us into slaves of a 'need' we often feel powerless to control. We start relying on whatever we are addicted to as a means to control our fear, anxiety and depression. Life without that 'thing' becomes bland and sometimes unbearable. Little by little addiction monopolises our mind and our life.
There are many causes for addiction. Recently, the media reported that some of us may be genetically predisposed. Given the known effects of drugs, can we really afford to legalise them? Should economic considerations trump the safeguarding of humans? Whilst I believe that we should change how we care for drug addicts and help them overcome their addiction, I am also certain that we must fight against a state-sanctioned normalisation of drug consumption.
Don't we want less people in our prisons, he asked his listeners. Prisons, it is known, are negative environments to be in and cost money to the taxpayer. Therefore, it is better to limit the number of people going to prison.
There is certainly a case for having better alternatives for those who are found to be guilty of drug possession. Prison, I agree, won't help them overcome addiction. It certainly will not facilitate rehabilitation in society. And there are some who argue that people imprisoned for minor crimes become more likely to commit graver offences once released.
A lot of organised crime revolves around the illegal trafficking of drugs, Maajid Nawas also argued. Legalising drugs would plummet their price putting a lot of criminal organisations out of work. I agree that legalising drugs will reduce their price and make it easier to control the market, but I also believe that there are many forms of trafficking and that organised crime will not diminish because of drug decriminalisation.
Whilst I accept many of Maajid's arguments, I remain against the legalisation of drugs. I believe legalising drugs would normalise their use and signal that we, as a society, see nothing wrong with it. To me, it is about recognising the devastating effects drugs have on people's lives.
The stigma currently attached to drugs serves an important purpose. It stops many people from using them. Easy availability, lower prices and a legal status would increase the number of consumers of these highly damaging and addictive substance. Can we really treat drug addiction so lightly? And who would be the most likely to use drugs?
Addiction degrades us. It makes it harder to rely on reason and turns us into slaves of a 'need' we often feel powerless to control. We start relying on whatever we are addicted to as a means to control our fear, anxiety and depression. Life without that 'thing' becomes bland and sometimes unbearable. Little by little addiction monopolises our mind and our life.
There are many causes for addiction. Recently, the media reported that some of us may be genetically predisposed. Given the known effects of drugs, can we really afford to legalise them? Should economic considerations trump the safeguarding of humans? Whilst I believe that we should change how we care for drug addicts and help them overcome their addiction, I am also certain that we must fight against a state-sanctioned normalisation of drug consumption.
March 16, 2017
What is the point of giving up?
When on Tuesday the doctors told us that puaji is not terminally ill any more, I felt a wave of relief. "Be prepared for everything. It is possible she might even go back to the state she was in before." they warned us gravely. We are aware. And we are prepared.
Puaji surprised everyone. I think back to last Friday when, in her room, the speech therapist reminded us of puaji's life reaching its end. Puaji was awake and listening attentively.
Luckily, mum, who was challenging the care protocol, asked for the discussion to be moved else where. When we returned, puaji whispered in my ear "They will be surprised!". And yes, they have been. We all have been. Perhaps, it's because of the holy water.
In between her mumblings, puaji asserted that she will not give up. "I won't give up! What is the point of giving up!?" she stated with conviction as she tried to lift herself unsuccessfully. Indeed, Puaji's will and determination, mixed with mum's experience and perseverance, have worked wonders.
She has inspired me. What is the point of giving up? There is no point. Nothing to be accomplished by throwing in the towel. Granted an extension for my university course work, I sit in the hospital coffee shop to go through some of the problem sheets before tackling the assessment. Yes, I would rather be in her room, but she is not far, just a short walk away; and, she is currently in good company.
I must work hard, find the right balance. I must approach my studies conscious that what I will learn now, if I apply myself, will enable me to make a better contribution. If I cannot do it all, that is fine. But I must not do less than what I am capable of doing.
But as I work on myself, I must also keep in mind the needs of others. Make sure that they remain in my sight and that I do my best for them too.
"I might panic. I might be scared..." whispered puaji last week. Tears often rolled down her cheeks. "I am calm." she said smiling today. Perhaps, her calmness comes from the knowledge that she is getting better. They have finally given her a N-G tube. The physiotherapist came to see her yesterday and, aided, she sat up for the first time since the start of the whole ordeal.
Everything is going to be okei!
Puaji surprised everyone. I think back to last Friday when, in her room, the speech therapist reminded us of puaji's life reaching its end. Puaji was awake and listening attentively.
Luckily, mum, who was challenging the care protocol, asked for the discussion to be moved else where. When we returned, puaji whispered in my ear "They will be surprised!". And yes, they have been. We all have been. Perhaps, it's because of the holy water.
In between her mumblings, puaji asserted that she will not give up. "I won't give up! What is the point of giving up!?" she stated with conviction as she tried to lift herself unsuccessfully. Indeed, Puaji's will and determination, mixed with mum's experience and perseverance, have worked wonders.
She has inspired me. What is the point of giving up? There is no point. Nothing to be accomplished by throwing in the towel. Granted an extension for my university course work, I sit in the hospital coffee shop to go through some of the problem sheets before tackling the assessment. Yes, I would rather be in her room, but she is not far, just a short walk away; and, she is currently in good company.
I must work hard, find the right balance. I must approach my studies conscious that what I will learn now, if I apply myself, will enable me to make a better contribution. If I cannot do it all, that is fine. But I must not do less than what I am capable of doing.
But as I work on myself, I must also keep in mind the needs of others. Make sure that they remain in my sight and that I do my best for them too.
"I might panic. I might be scared..." whispered puaji last week. Tears often rolled down her cheeks. "I am calm." she said smiling today. Perhaps, her calmness comes from the knowledge that she is getting better. They have finally given her a N-G tube. The physiotherapist came to see her yesterday and, aided, she sat up for the first time since the start of the whole ordeal.
Everything is going to be okei!
March 9, 2017
Heal!
"It is good to see you! Everyone is so busy we only see each other at weddings and funerals!" she told me laughing. "Only weddings, I hope!" I replied in tone. We were at my cousin's wedding and the air was saturated with happiness.
Even now, despite what the doctors said about puaji's condition, I'm still hoping there will be no funerals.
We are beautiful beings, complex but understandable. We are able to find strength in weakness, comedy in tragedy. As we drove to the hospital on Tuesday night, my dad, a self-professed anti-religious, told me that someone at work had given him a small bottle of holy water and promised that spraying the water on puaji and murmuring a prayer would cure her of her illness.
"Are you going to do it?" I asked with amazed semi-amusement.
"Yes. We have nothing to lose." he replied with conviction.
When we arrived we closed the door of puaji's side room before dad sprayed her with holy water whilst mumbling prayers to himself. "Heal! In the name of Jesus, heal!" he whispered under his breath, following the instructions he had been given.
Despite the tragedy of puaji's situation, I felt I had just landed in a Hollywood comedy. Once the rite had been completed, dad played puaji's some shabads (Sikh prayers).
Whatever it takes.
Puaji eventually rose from her state of semi-consciousness (shortly after being sprayed with holy water) and told us she wants to get out of hospital on her own feet. Hearing the words saddened me and I found myself promising her that she would. I assured her that if she kept fighting it would all be ok.
When we eventually left, my dad smiled victoriously. "She wasn't cured as I was promised but she seemed more present!". I later learned from my mum that the rite was repeated the following day (yesterday).
Today puaji was already much better, Taken off palliative care, she spoke to us more so than in the last few days. Suddenly aware of her situation she was also sadder. Seeing her so lucid and responsive gives us hope that the outcome is not quite as set as we were led to believe by the doctors. It will be a long road to recovery but I think it is possible.
After dinner dad left to go and see her. It is possible he will be sprinkling some holy water. (What have we got to lose?) ...I hope that seeing him will cheer puaji up a little.
Even now, despite what the doctors said about puaji's condition, I'm still hoping there will be no funerals.
We are beautiful beings, complex but understandable. We are able to find strength in weakness, comedy in tragedy. As we drove to the hospital on Tuesday night, my dad, a self-professed anti-religious, told me that someone at work had given him a small bottle of holy water and promised that spraying the water on puaji and murmuring a prayer would cure her of her illness.
"Are you going to do it?" I asked with amazed semi-amusement.
"Yes. We have nothing to lose." he replied with conviction.
When we arrived we closed the door of puaji's side room before dad sprayed her with holy water whilst mumbling prayers to himself. "Heal! In the name of Jesus, heal!" he whispered under his breath, following the instructions he had been given.
Despite the tragedy of puaji's situation, I felt I had just landed in a Hollywood comedy. Once the rite had been completed, dad played puaji's some shabads (Sikh prayers).
Whatever it takes.
Puaji eventually rose from her state of semi-consciousness (shortly after being sprayed with holy water) and told us she wants to get out of hospital on her own feet. Hearing the words saddened me and I found myself promising her that she would. I assured her that if she kept fighting it would all be ok.
When we eventually left, my dad smiled victoriously. "She wasn't cured as I was promised but she seemed more present!". I later learned from my mum that the rite was repeated the following day (yesterday).
Today puaji was already much better, Taken off palliative care, she spoke to us more so than in the last few days. Suddenly aware of her situation she was also sadder. Seeing her so lucid and responsive gives us hope that the outcome is not quite as set as we were led to believe by the doctors. It will be a long road to recovery but I think it is possible.
After dinner dad left to go and see her. It is possible he will be sprinkling some holy water. (What have we got to lose?) ...I hope that seeing him will cheer puaji up a little.
March 7, 2017
68
Borne down with bitter misfortune
you send me this letter, Manlius,
blotted with tears,
it comes like flotsam
from a spumy sea -
from the shipwreck of your affairs -
a cry from the undertow...
and that you,
whom Venus deprives
of soft sleep,
whom the Greek Muse
no longer tempts,
who turn restlessly
in an empty bed,
call me 'my friend',
that you look to Catullus
for love-gifts of Venus
& of the Holy Muses
is a gift in itself,
but your own tears blind you to mine.
I am not neglectful of friendship,
but we two squat in the same coracle,
we are both swamped by the same stormy waters,
I have not the gifts of a happy man...
Often enough,
when a man's toga first sat on my shoulders
I chased love & the Muses,
in the onset of youth
the tart mixtures of Venus
seeming sweet,
but a brother's death
drove a man's kickshaws
into limbo -
I have lost you my brother
and you death has ended
the spring season
of my hapiness,
Our house is buried with you
& buried the laughter you taught me.
There are no thought of love nor of poems
in my head
since you died.
Hence, Manlius
the reproach in your Roman letter
leaves me unmoved:
"Why loiter in Verona,
Catullus, where
for men of our circle
cold limbs in an empty bed
are the rule -
not the exception?"
Forgive me, my friend
but the dalliance of love
that you look for
has been soured by mourning.
As for a poem...
our tastes call for my Greek books,
and those are at home
where we both live
and where our years pile up,
in Rome...
I have few copies of anything by me.
One case only has followed me North.
There is nothing curmudgeonly here -
on whom do you think
I would sooner lavish
love-gifts of Venus
& gifts of the Holy Muses
than you?
You have turned to a friend
& the friends hands are empty...
How can I give what I have not got?
[...]
[Abridged]
Catullus
(Translation by Peter Whigham)
you send me this letter, Manlius,
blotted with tears,
it comes like flotsam
from a spumy sea -
from the shipwreck of your affairs -
a cry from the undertow...
and that you,
whom Venus deprives
of soft sleep,
whom the Greek Muse
no longer tempts,
who turn restlessly
in an empty bed,
call me 'my friend',
that you look to Catullus
for love-gifts of Venus
& of the Holy Muses
is a gift in itself,
but your own tears blind you to mine.
I am not neglectful of friendship,
but we two squat in the same coracle,
we are both swamped by the same stormy waters,
I have not the gifts of a happy man...
Often enough,
when a man's toga first sat on my shoulders
I chased love & the Muses,
in the onset of youth
the tart mixtures of Venus
seeming sweet,
but a brother's death
drove a man's kickshaws
into limbo -
I have lost you my brother
and you death has ended
the spring season
of my hapiness,
Our house is buried with you
& buried the laughter you taught me.
There are no thought of love nor of poems
in my head
since you died.
Hence, Manlius
the reproach in your Roman letter
leaves me unmoved:
"Why loiter in Verona,
Catullus, where
for men of our circle
cold limbs in an empty bed
are the rule -
not the exception?"
Forgive me, my friend
but the dalliance of love
that you look for
has been soured by mourning.
As for a poem...
our tastes call for my Greek books,
and those are at home
where we both live
and where our years pile up,
in Rome...
I have few copies of anything by me.
One case only has followed me North.
There is nothing curmudgeonly here -
on whom do you think
I would sooner lavish
love-gifts of Venus
& gifts of the Holy Muses
than you?
You have turned to a friend
& the friends hands are empty...
How can I give what I have not got?
[...]
[Abridged]
Catullus
(Translation by Peter Whigham)
March 1, 2017
...
Nani puaji,
I'm sorry... I'm sorry things went the way they did... I'm sorry I failed you...
I have been told innumerable times the story of how you travelled to Italy to help mum look after me when, little more than a baby, I fell ill. What your motives might have been at the time I cannot know for certain, but I know you cared.
Why didn't I come to see you when I learnt you were unwell? I knew you were going to the hospital... I knew... I saw the change when you came to see us three weeks ago. I knew something was wrong when you didn't come to the wedding... And, deep down, I was waiting... Waiting for the call, the sudden message that something had happened...
I knew something was wrong; yet, I stood by and did nothing. I did nothing because it was easier, more convenient... Yes, I asked for your new number, but I didn't persist... I let life carry on and relegated you to the back of my mind, a passing thought to be forgotten.
Tell me, was anyone there for you? Was Bella the only one who truly, genuinely, cared? Had it not been for her barking, how long would it have taken for someone to find you? Tell me, will you come back? Or will you come to dwell in our memories only? I ask the questions despite knowing the answer... Life is no fairytale...
And now, puaji, what happens next? ...Where do we go from here? ...Will you be moving next door, slipping into the next room? I sit in my room whilst you lie unconscious and alone in a hospital bed. We are losing you. There is no going back. No reversing time... And all that has happened up until now suddenly doesn't matter...
I think of your swollen hands and your hoarse breathing. In what world are you now? One we cannot reach... Not yet, anyways... Do you still have thoughts? Are you dreaming? Alone in that side room...
You were not perfect, but neither am I. You had problems, it is true, but you were careful to not burden anyone with them. How easily we forgot that... We were so hard in our judgement... So quick to believe that you had caused your own troubles... And we dismissed you despite hearing your cry for help... Why?
I failed you... All you needed was for someone to be there... I knew it then as I know it now and, yet, I did nothing.
I'm sorry... I'm sorry things went the way they did... I'm sorry I failed you...
I have been told innumerable times the story of how you travelled to Italy to help mum look after me when, little more than a baby, I fell ill. What your motives might have been at the time I cannot know for certain, but I know you cared.
Why didn't I come to see you when I learnt you were unwell? I knew you were going to the hospital... I knew... I saw the change when you came to see us three weeks ago. I knew something was wrong when you didn't come to the wedding... And, deep down, I was waiting... Waiting for the call, the sudden message that something had happened...
I knew something was wrong; yet, I stood by and did nothing. I did nothing because it was easier, more convenient... Yes, I asked for your new number, but I didn't persist... I let life carry on and relegated you to the back of my mind, a passing thought to be forgotten.
Tell me, was anyone there for you? Was Bella the only one who truly, genuinely, cared? Had it not been for her barking, how long would it have taken for someone to find you? Tell me, will you come back? Or will you come to dwell in our memories only? I ask the questions despite knowing the answer... Life is no fairytale...
And now, puaji, what happens next? ...Where do we go from here? ...Will you be moving next door, slipping into the next room? I sit in my room whilst you lie unconscious and alone in a hospital bed. We are losing you. There is no going back. No reversing time... And all that has happened up until now suddenly doesn't matter...
I think of your swollen hands and your hoarse breathing. In what world are you now? One we cannot reach... Not yet, anyways... Do you still have thoughts? Are you dreaming? Alone in that side room...
You were not perfect, but neither am I. You had problems, it is true, but you were careful to not burden anyone with them. How easily we forgot that... We were so hard in our judgement... So quick to believe that you had caused your own troubles... And we dismissed you despite hearing your cry for help... Why?
I failed you... All you needed was for someone to be there... I knew it then as I know it now and, yet, I did nothing.
February 17, 2017
A change of heart
When I went to my cousin’s house last Sunday, I was surprised to be greeted with the familiarity reserved to those who belong by complete strangers. Inebriated with excitement, people whom I had not met before, or perhaps could simply not remember, welcomed me as a close friend.
Some of my relatives, on the other hand, initially kept me at a measured distance. One I could perceive but would be lost on the observer. I felt their reproach for my previous absences in the rushed greetings, the awkward silences or the barely disguised impatience. I had failed to play the part my position demanded. But I could not blame them for their coolness. I have increasingly excluded them from my story, choosing to live a life in which they have become little more than shadows.
What should I do, how could I make myself useful, I internally debated as my eyes darted to the clock and I mentally calculated how long I should stay for my eventual departure to not be judged as premature. I planned the time when I would be home, making a list of my duties in the part of my life that did not include them. I shuffled around unsure about how to get involved, wishing to have a task that might will the time away without compromising a swift exit. I moved awkwardly around, unable (and perhaps unwilling) to partake in any significant conversation.
When I eventually said goodbye, the remark, ‘thank you for finding time for us in your busy schedule’, dressed in what I interpreted to be barely disguised condescension, left me ill at ease. I walked home angered that I should be incriminated for leaving after having spent two to three hours at my relative’s house. Did they truly expect that I put my life on hold, ignore deadlines and chores for an entire week, I asked. I considered what I believed to be their expectations to be unreasonable. I refused to be subjected to it, seeing it akin to forsaking my free agency.
Later, as I reflected on the situation, I realised how self-involved I have become. Me, me and always me. Did I truly expect everyone to be on my schedule? Was I not willing to mould my life to include the people who have looked after me during my childhood? Was I going to focus on our differences or our similarities? How could I be so jaded to not see how stressed they were in that moment? Their daughter, and sister, was getting married. They wanted the best for her, to ensure that everything went well. What was I doing to help? Nothing.
Instead, my preoccupations focused on leaving, pretending, going through the motions… I had failed to reassure them. Their reaction would have been mine had our roles been reversed, for it was evident that I had chosen to do nothing to contribute to their success. What was being counted was not how much time I had to give, but how much I cared. That was the basis on which I was being judged. And whilst I might have professed to care, my approach revealed the reality of my feelings. I cloaked my shortcomings with self-deception. Rather than celebrating it for the joyous occasion it is, I acted as if the wedding were an inconvenience.
So I told myself, ‘this is an opportunity to be together, to have fun and contribute to something good. Make the most of it, She!’. I recalled my Taiaji’s words, ‘do not wait to do a good thing’. In the days following that Sunday, as I have allowed myself to smile freely, to be with others simply, to help out with pleasure as well as duty, things have changed greatly. I am invested in my relatives' success and am glad to see them happy. I will admit that when particularly tired after a long day at uni and work, I have sometimes wished I could stay at home. But those feelings are temporary; they evaporate as soon as I arrive at my cousin’s. Seeing her and everyone else is great. The memories we are building together these days are ones I am certain to value in the future. I have even come to wish for the wedding to last longer.
Some of my relatives, on the other hand, initially kept me at a measured distance. One I could perceive but would be lost on the observer. I felt their reproach for my previous absences in the rushed greetings, the awkward silences or the barely disguised impatience. I had failed to play the part my position demanded. But I could not blame them for their coolness. I have increasingly excluded them from my story, choosing to live a life in which they have become little more than shadows.
What should I do, how could I make myself useful, I internally debated as my eyes darted to the clock and I mentally calculated how long I should stay for my eventual departure to not be judged as premature. I planned the time when I would be home, making a list of my duties in the part of my life that did not include them. I shuffled around unsure about how to get involved, wishing to have a task that might will the time away without compromising a swift exit. I moved awkwardly around, unable (and perhaps unwilling) to partake in any significant conversation.
When I eventually said goodbye, the remark, ‘thank you for finding time for us in your busy schedule’, dressed in what I interpreted to be barely disguised condescension, left me ill at ease. I walked home angered that I should be incriminated for leaving after having spent two to three hours at my relative’s house. Did they truly expect that I put my life on hold, ignore deadlines and chores for an entire week, I asked. I considered what I believed to be their expectations to be unreasonable. I refused to be subjected to it, seeing it akin to forsaking my free agency.
Later, as I reflected on the situation, I realised how self-involved I have become. Me, me and always me. Did I truly expect everyone to be on my schedule? Was I not willing to mould my life to include the people who have looked after me during my childhood? Was I going to focus on our differences or our similarities? How could I be so jaded to not see how stressed they were in that moment? Their daughter, and sister, was getting married. They wanted the best for her, to ensure that everything went well. What was I doing to help? Nothing.
Instead, my preoccupations focused on leaving, pretending, going through the motions… I had failed to reassure them. Their reaction would have been mine had our roles been reversed, for it was evident that I had chosen to do nothing to contribute to their success. What was being counted was not how much time I had to give, but how much I cared. That was the basis on which I was being judged. And whilst I might have professed to care, my approach revealed the reality of my feelings. I cloaked my shortcomings with self-deception. Rather than celebrating it for the joyous occasion it is, I acted as if the wedding were an inconvenience.
So I told myself, ‘this is an opportunity to be together, to have fun and contribute to something good. Make the most of it, She!’. I recalled my Taiaji’s words, ‘do not wait to do a good thing’. In the days following that Sunday, as I have allowed myself to smile freely, to be with others simply, to help out with pleasure as well as duty, things have changed greatly. I am invested in my relatives' success and am glad to see them happy. I will admit that when particularly tired after a long day at uni and work, I have sometimes wished I could stay at home. But those feelings are temporary; they evaporate as soon as I arrive at my cousin’s. Seeing her and everyone else is great. The memories we are building together these days are ones I am certain to value in the future. I have even come to wish for the wedding to last longer.
