Mira Saraf's Blog

Photo by Chelsea shapouri on Unsplash

In a few years, as you enter menopause, you’ll start to have all sorts of mood swings, so you should warn your partner to be prepared. 

Not an exact quote, but the gist of what a know-it-all gynaecologist told me during a health check-up a few years ago, after quizzing me on whether I knew why people did pap smears, and appearing rather disappointed that I knew the correct answer. 

This was my only introduction to this strange new phase of my life. 

The things I knew about menopause are things I could count on my fingers: no more menstruation, hot flashes, and irritability. 

But of late, as I was officially declared perimenopausal by my ob-gyn (not the know-it-all thankfully), I have found myself seeking out more information, even though there is not much available except the ever-pervasive: you’ll have mood swings, sweat a lot, and put on weight. 

I noticed the weighing scale tipping upwards, with no real change in my diet. I noticed that my husband’s figure remained as it was while mine softened and slackened. I noticed that my periods while lighter and shorter, sucked the life out of me, making me feel like I could sleep for 20 hours and still feel tired. 

I know that weight and thinness are not the be all and end all – I do not want to look thin, I don’t care about six pack abs (never have), but I do want to feel healthy. 

Having put on four kilograms since my wedding last year, with much of the weight gain having happened over the last six months eating the same foods that hadn’t affected me before, I felt frustrated. It’s not about those four kilograms per se, but about having control over my body and my health. 

None of the dietary advice I’ve read seems to be helpful. I have consulted nutrition experts before and have been burned by poor advice which wasn’t based on my individual needs. 

I had already struggled with weight gain during the early part of the pandemic. At that time, I tried many qualitative solutions, introducing all sorts of buzz foods into my diet, and sought professional advice. Nothing worked.

I finally stopped reading nutrition advice online and listening to “experts” and started trying out intuitive things. 

For example, a simple calorie counter told me that the problem wasn’t the quality of what I was eating – I have always been a healthy eater – but the quantity – specifically of protein. 

Even too much of a good thing is still that: too much. 

As a non-vegetarian, I naturally consume enough protein for my body weight, yet I was given the feeling that the more protein, the better. But what I didn’t realise is that it didn’t suit my body or my needs. 

Then, about three years ago, as soon as I started to monitor my caloric intake and my macros, the problem righted itself and I lost ten kilograms slowly and steadily over about six to eight months.

Today, I’m back to taking stock of my lifestyle and my diet, trying to figure out what makes me feel better and more energetic. I’m experimenting to see not only what moves the number down on the scale but how it affects my mood, my strength and my ability to get through the day. I have had a few small wins, but there is still a long way to go. 

 I’m not a health expert, and none of the above is meant as advice for those who are struggling with the same thing; rather, it is just me sharing my experiences and hoping that I can figure this out, one step at a time.

Menopause is not something that has been discussed in great detail, perhaps because it is something of a taboo topic. However, I see this changing, especially as millennials approach and experience perimenopause and menopause. At least I’m hoping it will be. 

The only thing that has helped me is humour – and here’s where the internet, specifically social media, has been a boon. There is some great hilarious content out there, which not only lightens the mood, it also helps us feel less alone. It gives us the feeling that there is someone who can relate to our pain. 

I don’t know if I’ll lose all the weight I gained or if it’s even important to me to lose every gram of it – but it is more about having the ability to own my body and health. That, to me, is priceless.

After messing up the bed!

I didn’t realise I had pet-adoption blues, in fact that I’d had it before, till after I was out of it. 

We adopted our older dog Panja, a few months into the pandemic, and our younger one Cookie, just a few weeks ago. With both adoptions we had actually been looking to adopt older dogs, not being too keen on toilet training. In both cases we ended up with pups.

And in both cases, I felt doubt and anxiety at the commitment we’d taken on, and there was despair at the chaos that the new puppy brought.

It struck me that this could be why so many people give up on their animals within a few months of getting them. The sense of impending failure is so strong, even when you’ve done it before. 

I’ve never heard anyone talk about this, rather they judge the failed pet parents. In some cases yes, poor hasty decisions are made, and I don’t condone the abandonment of pets. But it would have been nice to hear someone say, “don’t worry, it gets better”. 

Bringing a new pet, especially a dog, and most especially a puppy into your life requires a huge adjustment and some significant amount of pain (sometimes both mental and physical!) before it all settles. 

What happens at the beginning is stressful and peppered generously with unsolicited advice about what you need to do to be a good pet parent. 

Different people will tell you different things, at times contradictory things, which all claim to be backed by science. In our case it was: dogs like this, dogs don’t like that, you should do this, and you absolutely shouldn’t do that.

It’s difficult because everyone is convinced they’re right. 

We got five different suggestions for tick control, and widely varying opinions on getting her spayed. 

When we adopted Angel (aka Panja), her anxiety was a huge roadblock to toilet training. She’d still rather go inside the house than go for a walk. We did so many recommended things to bring up her confidence – but none made much difference. 

In the end, it was my taking her to the office, starting when she was one and a half years old, that made the most difference. 

In the early days, she peed so much it was overwhelming. Given her assumption that she belonged on every bed and sofa, this often happened on the furniture, resulting in more than a few early linens changes in the early days. In addition, every time our landlord would visit she would pee. 

Shredding became a part of our lives, we had to remember to keep doors shut that used to remain open, and be careful about leaving food unattended. Then there was the 6am, “whose turn is it to walk the dog” (before we hired dog walkers), the tracking of pee and poop timings, the feeling of joy when she relieved herself in the right place at the right time, and many other small victories and failures. 

I’m not sure when she started to settle and become calmer (relatively). But over time she matured and until recently, she has been a reasonably well behaved dog, unless my colleagues at the office are eating in front of her. Then she goes back to being an untrained ruffian. 

The recent change of course being the new puppy.

The thing is, doing all the things suggested to us, in all the right ways was practically infeasible for us – and sometimes the result wasn’t what was promised. For example it was clear early on that Panja wouldn’t do some things – not because she didn’t understand that it was wrong – but more that she didn’t see that particular “hooman” rule to be too important. 

So we learned we had to take all the advice and find our own way to manage. 

Adding Cookie into the mix compounded the challenges of raising a puppy, because now there was an older dog to play with, get jealous of, and fight with. Cookie’s too young to have much bladder control, and she couldn’t go out for walks for the first ten days, because she needed to get vaccinated. 

Since her sister was allowed to do it, Panja also decided she would commence peeing and pooping inside again. 

Right after we officially adopted Cookie (for the first 3 weeks she was a foster), my partner went away for a 2 week trip to the US. The early days of managing both alone were torturous, since Cookie displayed no visible interest in acquiring any discipline or being a well-behaved dog. 

During my first week I felt despair, frustration and anxiety all in equal measure. They tested my patience in ways I cannot describe. 

Panja was never territorial about her food. In fact I would say largely she still isn’t – except when her baby sister is around to try and steal it. Like a typical younger sibling, Cookie wanted her sister’s share and her own both – and of course she doesn’t want to share with Panja.

For one person to feed two dogs separately is a logistical challenge to say the least, without adding the fact that one is noisily outraged when her dinner takes too long. 

She’s the polar opposite of Panja, confident with humans and yet afraid of dogs which has presented an interesting challenge.

I had finally gotten Cookie to use pee pads, when the two of them decided that their new favourite game was “shred the pee pad” and they made such a mess, that eventually I gave up leaving them down for her altogether. 

I think I hit rock bottom, when one night, Cookie peed in one of the small stainless steel bowls I use to make them frozen treats. Why? Because Panja came to lick Cookie’s bowl (they often licked each other’s bowls after eating), Cookie decided she wasn’t happy about it and peed. Then she went and licked Panja’s. 

I actually said “are you kidding me?!?” to Cookie. 

Now while in retrospect this is quite comic, by this point, I was exhausted, had major feelings of self-doubt about my ability to do this, and felt overwhelmed by it all. 

But what I didn’t realise is that a shift had started. I am not sure when it began, but slowly I found myself starting to adapt. I tweaked the way I handled them, trying different things to see what worked. I consulted a behaviourist, and implemented some of the strategies she suggested in the best way I could.

And then, one day I woke up and I thought, “okay, I got this. Whatever’s coming, I got this.”

I wrote all of this basically to say – if, after bringing your new dog home, you feel doubt, upset, overwhelmed, or frustrated – it’s completely normal. You’ll need to change some things of course, like you would for any new member of the family, but it’s more possible to succeed than you think. 

And you’ll be okay even if you don’t have all the answers or you’re struggling to get them to behave. While I’m not qualified to give advice as to specific dos and don’ts of dog care – I only know what’s working for my dogs – I can say with confidence that if you can learn as you go, and make the changes you need (assuming you are in a position to do so of course), it can get better. 

I was sitting on my sofa this afternoon with the two of them sound asleep beside me. When I saw them peaceful at last after a morning of play, I felt a joy that I cannot describe. I didn’t know I could love like this: it’s more than I’ve ever felt for any human. 

And that moment made the stress and the hassle all worthwhile. We’re going to be okay. 

I’ve said goodbye to this house twice now. The first time was 6 years my parents were moving to Gurgaon, but the house stayed with us and they eventually rebuilt it and moved back.

The second time was this morning. Within the next few weeks, if all goes well, the house will pass to a new family to love.

I’ve known this house for the past 35 years. It was my grandfather’s: a plot of land given to him upon his retirement. At least I think that’s how we came to have it, long before Vasant Vihar was a posh colony.

When I close my eyes and think of home or my childhood, I am drawn to an image of mine with short hair, in a green dress with an all over print of benign looking alligators, in the open area behind the house.

I must be about eight or ten. There was, probably still is, a steel door that led into the back alley, and a stairwell up towards the help quarters.

There may have been a generator back there too, a moody beast of machinery that seemed to take pleasure in performing inadequately. Little shards of class topped the wall, to keep out intruders.

I’m not sure if I ever wore that particular dress there, in that space, but that’s the way I always imagine it. I don’t even know if that’s what the dress actually looked like. And yet it’s there, locked in my memories, as fact of what was.

And I always think of it in its oldest iterations, with a family room at the back with a door leading to that open space that haunts my memories.

I remember my grandmother’s room. I remember my grandfather’s room, a later addition, past the washing machine and dryer, a handwritten sign outside that read “the retreat.”

This is how I remember it at least.

Both of them passed on in this house. In addition to the human ghosts, there are those of the animals: Axel – our golden retriever, Aristotle – a Siamese cat, Nemo – a Labrador, Snowflake – a fluffy Persian, and his brother Felix. I may be missing one or two here.

The last one to go was a cat I brought from Canada, Penny. She passed away last year.

To say the ghosts of their memories haunt the place would be unfair; I would rather say the house feels peaceful, like the spirits are at rest, satisfied with the happy full lives they have led, and whatever care we could provide towards the end.

It feels weird that I won’t come here as home any longer. It feels weird to not have a permanent address.

The house was my rock in though times of turmoil, a reassuring presence that comforted me through difficult phases of my life, even when I was far away.

I wonder if I did the goodbye justice. How do you bid adieu to a presence you took for granted for so many years?

There are many things I didn’t do. I didn’t visit the neighbourhood bar that is walking distance from my house. I didn’t go to the D block park to walk (also because 41 degrees is really not an ideal temperature for a walk).

I didn’t go to the terrace on the roof as we sometimes had on hot June nights when we lost power back in the 80s. I didn’t meet friends in the area.

All of these things felt excessive though: forced. There would be no ideal way to fit it all in. Perhaps doing everything that one last time wasn’t as necessary as it seems. Perhaps the last 35 years are enough, just as they are, as memories.

Goodbyes are necessary and all phases of life must come to an end. This is one chapter I close with mixed feelings.

I would have to say goodbye to the house at some point or another. My parents and their fur babies will now be much closer to me. I won’t have to eke out time and money to go see them, leaving my own little (mostly fur) family behind.

And yet there’s a bit of mourning too. Mourning what is now lost, which is much more than the structure that stands, in fact it is the collection of memories that linger between those walls.

Those memories stay, much like the old open space at the back, with the wall guarded by glass shards. It doesn’t exist like that anymore but it stays like that always, forever in my heart.

And yet this choking sensation in my throat tells me it that I will still remember with a twinge of sadness.

And because I won’t be there when our things are packed and shipped out, it will remain trapped in my memory just as I left it this morning: awaiting my next visit, as a ten year-old in a green alligator print dress.

I didn’t expect Netflix’s show Maid, to trigger me the way it did. 

The show, based on a true story, is the story of a single mom, Alex, trying to build her own life by escaping an emotionally abusive relationship, trying to take care of a mentally ill mother, and having no qualifications, or money. 

She is always steps from homelessness, battling a very flawed welfare system, and every time you think things are going to get better for her, her paper-thin foundation collapses.

Even almost 8 years after my own toxic relationship ended, I realized my emotions are raw and tender to the touch.

The show is forcing me to relook at a very difficult time in my past, perhaps with more distance, but still as much pain.

I don’t remember if it was seeing the bowl hit the wall (in my case it was two bowls shattered on the ground, and a fist denting a closet) or that inexplicable feeling of being afraid when he had never physically harmed me, that brought it all back. 

Like Alex’s partner, mine was an alcoholic. Unlike the character in the show he had a proper job. He is one of the smartest men I know. Unlike the show, we didn’t share a child. I’m relieved for that, and also relieved that we never got married. We made decent money and lived in apartments, not trailers, cars, or ferry floors. 

He wasn’t a bad person which is why I linger on the word “abuse.” It feels so final, so concrete. 

It feels like it says he did this to me – and while to a certain extent he did, I still need to process my own role in it. Not in causing mood swings, and tempers, but in allowing myself to prolong the situation. 

And it’s not like I was without my own bad behaviour. I responded in kind – perhaps not by breaking things but while there were times I would freeze and go numb, there were many times I would fight back and yell back at him. 

In fact, I became the ugliest version of myself in that relationship. I was insecure and constantly off-balance. I was paranoid, anxious, and unstable. It’s fair to say I wasn’t an ideal partner back.

There are also many questions that plague me. 

Why did I think I was head over heels in love? Was it love? If not, what was it? Why did I stay? What was that thing that prevented me from leaving? Even now, I can’t figure it out.

Yet Maid shows me that it’s not unusual to slip back into old habits, to stay or to go back to something you know somewhere in your gut, isn’t healthy. But you literally don’t know how to cut the cord.

Is it power dynamics? Did I feel, perhaps, that I wasn’t worth anything better? Did I feel that this was penance for how I had ended a previous relationship?

While I still can’t figure it out, I do remember four distinct feelings:

One – of walking on eggshells, not wanting to say or so the wrong thing in case it triggered an outburst.

Two – backtracking in my mind when an outburst occurred, kicking myself for being so stupid as to say or do a certain thing. 

Three – knowing in my gut that it would never get better. That eventually I would have to find a way out. But not knowing how to do it. 

Four – and this in most important – the feeling of relief and calm once the passing storm was over. The make up being so sweet and warm, that once again I got lulled into complacency. And maybe  that right there is why I stayed.

He drank a six pack each day and then would drink liberally from the liquor cabinet. He was a functioning alcoholic – at least to my knowledge he wasn’t drunk during the day.

One night while I was at this absolutely beautiful fairytale wedding in the South of France, back in Toronto, he got so drunk he found himself on a stranger’s porch – with his glasses either broken or lost – I can’t remember which. 

The irony was not lost on me.

Then there was the time I lost him at a party because he was so drunk he couldn’t process that I was looking for him to leave.

These just sound like a couple of crazy nights out – for sure. Many of us have done stupid things while drunk. But it’s a slippery slope to where those things get more and more frequent, and the behaviour becomes less and less responsible. 

Another example: we were reading the Game of Thrones book together (cheesy? Oh yes). I was hooked. One day after work I really wanted to read it and he wasn’t in the mood. 

I tried to persuade him, and maybe I was a little overzealous in doing so but he suddenly erupted into a fury and he ripped the book to shreds. I don’t think he was even drunk that time. 

It’s hard to be with someone who has a substance abuse problem because in a way they aren’t themselves.

I’m not suggesting for one moment that we excuse bad behaviour, but the fact is alcoholism turned this person who was already hurt and damaged, into someone who caused damage. 

It magnified every insecurity and wound, and every trivial issue into a massive outburst. 

There was a day someone was coming to look at (and potentially but) a dresser where he had kept his passport. For safety, I had moved it somewhere else and had forgotten to tell them. 

Those few minutes of initial panic where he couldn’t find his passport erupted into a full blown episode-and I was finding it hard to be screamed at for doing something that was ultimately not careless or even a mistake. 

I think that might have been the day I locked myself in the bathroom because I just wanted the yelling to stop. 

The thing with these situations is that our  instinct to self-preserve gets dulled somehow, and we end up going back again and again, and not getting ourselves out. Little pieces of ourselves chip away. Plus there is the downtime between cycles where we lull ourselves into complacency. 

There were two more things that reminded me of him during the course of the show.

First – this feeling of “us against the world.” The feeling that we were volatile but powerful together, the feeling that this thing we had was the raw pure kind of love that burned your edges in the process. That normalized a lot of what happened. And that is reflected in Alex’s relationship with Sean. 

And second – and here is a small spoiler – the inability to be happy about a life decision or event, without being envious or petty. 

Whether it was why a recruiter contacted me on LinkedIn, or the fact that I got to the final round of a writing job interview we both applied for, I was never at ease with certain victories. 

It’s not that he never celebrated my successes. It would be very unfair of me to claim that. But a seemingly harmless thing like “hey wouldn’t it be cool if I moved to Vancouver” (where he was from) got transformed into something entirely different.

It’s not that there was no love and affection. It’s not like every day was a screaming match. That’s the thing people don’t understand when they ask why you stay. It is cyclical.

There are good days when it felt like yes, he is going to change, and it’s all going to be okay. And then something would happen and we would go through the whole thing again. 

At one point in the show someone tells Alex that she should feel bad for Sean because he is suffering. 

And it made me think about love and relationships. In a relationship – be it friendship or something more intimate – we are supposed to take care of each other.

But what happens when that caretaking starts to hurt you? At what point do you throw up your hands and say “I can’t make sure that you’re okay anymore.”

For me the end came when I moved out of the country. Although we were still together I think subconsciously part of my desire to move was fuelled by wanting to get away.

We ended things six months later when he inexplicably stopped talking to me for six weeks. It broke my heart, but it was for the best – and I think he knew that too.

However, a mutual friend got in touch a few years later to tell me he had been planning to commit suicide on his birthday. 

He was obsessed with being a drunk mess and dying early, a fascination that began some time in early in our relationship – perhaps when his ex flew half way across the country, plonked herself in his apartment and tried her best to break us up and make him take her back. 

If only the breakup strategy had worked, how different life would have been. 

The suicide attempt got handled – though I don’t remember how. However, this mutual friend suspected, that he had gotten into other drugs. This I never confirmed.

The next time we talked he had managed to create chlorine gas in his apartment thanks to a combination of empty beer bottles and I’m not sure what else. 

I finally sent a long message to his mother detailing my concerns and asking for her to bring him home. 

Thankfully she did, though I don’t think he was happy about it. 

There was even a day in between where she reached out to me because he wasn’t answering his phone. I remember sitting in the Bombay local train and calling him long distance. I can’t remember what he said but thankfully he was fine. 

Now, five years later he is sober and much healthier. That sharp brain of his is being put to good use. 

I can’t really verbalize what this show made me feel. It put certain things into perspective about relationships with addicts. It made me realize that what I went through wasn’t normal. 

And most of all it made me feel thankful. Thankful for my current partner who is nothing like this, and has helped me learn to enjoy a stable relationship after many years. 

I’m happy also that he is sober. When you care about someone, even if they hurt you, you don’t want to see bad things happen to them. 

At least I don’t. 

There are a lot of people who may connect to the show for different reasons – being a single mom, dealing with US welfare systems and their cracks, caring for a mentally ill family member – and that’s what makes this show so amazing and real. This was mine.

Would recommend watching this one although do so in a good head space. 

Penny, sometime between 2013 – 2016

One of the hardest things about being a pet parent is saying goodbye. For those of us who love animals, our fur babies become part of the family, and an integral part of our lives. 

I adopted my tortoise shell cat, Penny, from an organisation called Toronto Cat Rescue in 2008. She was 9 months old and every bit as feisty as a tortie should be.

She had been rescued from a shelter where she was to be euthanized – and fostered into a home with lots of other cats.

Like many humans, Penny didn’t  like cats.

It took her a while to open up, and be affectionate with me, but over time I would often find her pressed up against me, or sleeping on top of the other pillow. 

Kitten days…

In fact when she was sleeping on me, I dared not move because Penny did not like to be woken from her beauty sleep.

She was quite mischievous as a kitten, seeing no good reason why she should let me sleep past 5:30 am, why she shouldn’t jump on the dresser and knock items off, or she should let me finish my food all by myself. 

She was bright and curious, and had a unique way of commuting. If she ran out of water in her bowl, she would either stand in the bathtub and glare at me, or she was start pushing her bowl around to make a racket.

She would get fascinated by human things like toilet flushes and sinks and lightbulbs. 

In my apartment in Toronto

She would sit with her back up against the back of the couch like a person, and one time even put her elbow on the arm rest. 

I always joked that Penny wanted to be a human. 

She was totally dysfunctional but adorably so. 

When I made the decision to come back to India in November 2013, I brought her with me. She was super cranky through the vaccinations and microchipping (recommended when you are flying with pets). 

Also as she saw my furniture disappearing bit by bit. 

I remember doing so much research into which airline I should fly that would be safest for her. I picked a KLM flight w a 5 hour layover because they apparently had a pressurized pet cabin and a pet “hotel” in Amsterdam. 

When I was reunited with her in Delhi I felt this extreme sense of relief. The hard part was over. Or so I thought.

Her first few weeks in Delhi were comic. She growled at everyone except me – especially my parents’ well – intentioned, if rather dopey Persian cat Felix. The whole house was terrified of her. 

I don’t know if it was being approached by an orange ball of fluff or she was just confused and disoriented by the jetlag.

Slowly (largely through food) the rest of the household also won her over. They spoiled her rotten, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

She went on to develop an odd friendship with Felix.

In the hot summer months, when my mother would get Felix a “lion cut” which is something  I have mixed feelings about to this day. He would come back, half drunk on anaesthetic, and looking a lot like one of those hairless hypoallergenic cats.

Penny would get really angry at him when he would turn up like that, as if to say, “you’re such a moron! Something like this would only happen to YOU!”

But they still had an odd harmony. She would like to touch his tail because it fascinated her that something could be so fluffy. 

When he was in his final days she was first angry, at his lack of ability to walk properly, but then mourned him deeply after his passing. 

Even though animals can’t speak, you can tell with these things. 

We had a health scare with her in 2015, when she got fatty liver disease – and she had to spend a week in the hospital. At that time, when the doctor hinted we might need to look at putting her down, I was distraught.

Luckily, she made a full recovery. 

A year and a half later, when I was moving to Mumbai, Penny’s staying in Delhi with my parents was non-negotiable. My parents insisted on it. 

Penny was not pleased with this back and forth I started between Delhi and Mumbai – and would often ignore me for the first little bit after I arrived and then again when she saw the suitcase come out again.

A few years ago, Penny developed a lump on her belly. The vet initially told us to leave it, and by the time we realized it was cancer, it was quite serious. 

It was 2020, and impossible to travel. 

They operated on the lump, and she seemed to recover for some time. 

When I came back to Delhi for a 5 day trip and stayed for a month (thanks COVID) I got to make up for lost time. She seemed to be getting stronger. 

She would sleep in my bed with me, a much better sleeping partner than my puppy, Angel, in Mumbai, who tries to steal my side of the bed. Penny always made room when I needed to adjust my position. 

When I left last time, as was custom, Penny was pissed. Instead of a farewell, I got a few angry bites on my ankle. 

That was in November.

In the last few weeks her condition started to worsen. She often kept my parents up at night because she would be gasping for breath. 

The worst had happened. The cancer had spread. 

For some reason or another, I was unable to travel to Delhi to see her until Monday. 

On Monday after I arrived, relieved that I had made it on time, she ate a little from my finger. She hadn’t eaten from my hand in years. 

But that was the last I saw her eat. 

Every night the past week I woke up in darkness to hear her hyperventilating in some corner. I’ve gone to sit with her and stroked her, hoping that the love would remind her that we were by her side in her most difficult of days.

She developed a smell about her, which was also difficult to take. I didn’t know if it was because disease was eating her body from the inside out. 

But I can still smell it now, even though she’s gone and I’m in another city. It feels like it is lingering on me.

Since yesterday, we have had 2-3 times where we thought it was the end. And somehow she would always pull through, either starting to breathe normally, or standing and moving. 

Yesterday evening I sat with her head on my hand for 45 minutes. She kept shifting positions, sometimes placing her paw on my hand, sometimes her head. I am hoping I was able to give her a little comfort. 

What’s amazing is how much she fought. She was struggling so much, but she refused to give up. 

She was a stubborn little thing, and much like my grandmother, almost 2 years ago, did not want to let death get the better of her so fast.

This morning, in the hour before I had to leave for the airport, her condition deteriorated rapidly. She was in visible distress, gasping out loud to breathe, and foaming at the mouth. 

My parents and I sat with her, until the last possible moment I could leave. 

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do – walking away to leave for my flight, knowing she was going to go any moment. Yet some part of me felt that perhaps she wanted to wait till I left. 

Whatever the truth was, she was gone within five minutes of my leaving. She suffered greatly in her last days, but the only comfort I have is that when she passed, in her final moments, she was with my parents, whom she loved most after me. 

I’m sleep deprived and devastated, but I’m also grateful and relieved. Grateful that she chose me to spend her life with, and for all the love she gave me. Relieved that she is no longer in pain.

If you’ve never had pets you may think this display of emotion excessive. But for those of you who have, I think you’ll get what I’m saying.

The end is harder than anything, but is always worth all the unconditional love they give you in their short little lives. 

Penny: I love you forever and I’m really going to miss you. I hope you’re getting lots of tuna in kitty heaven and that you’re reunited with Felix. 

Rest In Peace Penny.

June 1, 2007 – February 13, 2021

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

When I turned 30, my last so-called milestone birthday, I was unemployed, broke, and heartbroken. I was totally and completely lost.

I was still at that age, where there was a lot of pressure to “achieve” things by certain points in time. By 30, I had reasoned, I should have my shit together.

I should be relatively successful, have a social-media-boasting – worthy partner and generally be on a rapid upward trajectory. 

But I didn’t have any of those things, and the closer it loomed, the more things fell apart.

As a result, I was forced to let go of my ambitious expectations of life, and all the greatness I was clearly destined for (as a millennial, it is my birthright to feel that I am special, as anyone who has grumbled about our generation will agree). 

I had to embrace the reality, which wasn’t all that pretty.

On a side note, I did have a lovely celebration in New York with some close friends. But in terms of my life plan, I was VERY behind.

I was living in Toronto at the time. A little over a year earlier, I had quit my job, to become a writer. I started out in full force, but somewhere along the way, my drive began to fray at the edges. It was then that I met the man who would later break my heart, in that traumatic way that only toxic love can. 

Shortly after my 30th birthday, I reunited with the man that had broken my heart. However, we still weren’t a good fit for each other. This was an affair that would continue in a very mercurial way – we were either totally in love or in fights so bad, I never want to relive them.

Although there may have been a lot of love, we were not mature enough perhaps to be good for each other. We didn’t bring out the best in each other, rather we inadvertently pulled each other down.

For a time things picked up, largely because I went back to real and got a decent job and a steady income again.  

When I got the job at H&M, a year and a half later, I couldn’t believe it. Twice-yearly trips to Sweden, an office that was walking distance from my house, and a gorgeous view of the Toronto skyline. I was sorted. Things were looking up!

But 11 months later, about half a year before my 33rd birthday, I was miserable again. Now two and a half years into that same relationship, but worse still, as a result of intense bullying from my boss, and a toxic unsupportive work environment, I ended up quitting my retail job cold turkey. 

It was the second time I had done such a thing. The result, because of short tenures at my previous organisations  – was that getting a job in the same field was near impossible. 

On a whim, I came and spent a month in Delhi, with my parents. 

That’s when the itch started. I knew I was spinning my wheels in Toronto – it was comfortable, if a little boring, and oh so cold, but I really wasn’t getting anywhere. 

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed inevitable. Before I knew it, I was wrapping up my affairs in Toronto, and making preparations to move back.

It was the first of two major changes I would make in the decade.

India – well Delhi – had changed greatly in the 15 years I had been away. It was no longer the challenging place of the 1980s, nor the post-liberalisation Delhi I remembered from the 1990s. 

It was strangely liveable – in a way that I had never imagined it to be as a child in license raj Delhi. Adapting to India in 2013 was a piece of cake compared to what my parents had gone through 30 years earlier. 

I joined the family business, but remained a bit rudderless, not really having a clearly defined role. I embraced being a social butterfly for a time, developing a wide circle of friends, and spending a lot of time out. 

Six months after moving to Delhi, I finally pulled the plug on my old relationship, in a way that left me completely and utterly shattered. It took me a long time to recover. 

I tried to date, I really did. I had a few short relationships, all of which were disastrous, partly due to the baggage, and partly because they were just poor fits. 

I couldn’t adjust to the heavy emphasis on marriage, the strange power dynamics, and the fact that I was not able to find a situation, within which I was comfortable to be vulnerable, and myself.  

It was in Delhi that I first truly embraced therapy. I did phone consultations to work through a number of issues and insecurities that I was grappling with – leftover from a confused career trajectory, a massive heartbreak and some intrinsic shortcomings that had been there long before all this transpired. I didn’t realise how much this would come to help me in the years to come.

Three years later, my father (who is also my boss) dropped a bombshell on my colleague and I. He wanted us to move to Mumbai. 

I have never had to “adult” in India. 15 years in Canada was no preparation. I had always been afraid of trying to make it on my own here – I had always had family support, and doing things like managing help and commissioning plumbers in Hindi was not my forte. 

Mumbai challenged me and stretched me in ways that I cannot describe to you. I tell Mumbaikars, who chuckle at us whiny Delhiites, that it made me a better person.

My first few years in Mumbai were full of minor breakages – and I became very familiar with plumbers, carpenters and a variety of workmen, who shielded me from leaky pipes, broken doors and rogue pigeons who absolutely needed to nest, and consequently shit, all over my balcony. 

I gave up socialising, because quite frankly, after commuting through traffic, who wants to go out again. My friends were largely in Bandra, which was 40 minutes to an hour away (again, because of traffic – at least half that time was spent leaving Andheri).

Although I tried very hard to meet new people, I found myself attrcting a very needy, clingy variety of people, whose ilk I could not handle. So, I turned inwards, embracing the introvert I had long repressed, and found myself enjoying my own company much more than that of others. 

In a way I felt like I had found my way home – to the person I was as a child – happy on my own, and content without the validation of others. 

I embraced my solitude so much, that when I met my current partner, it was difficult for me to let go of that need for personal time. I wasn’t used to being around someone else so much, and it was a huge adjustment, but a worthwhile one. 

That was another major milestone for me, finally meeting someone that had the same approach to relationships that I did – someone who didn’t covet a title or a certificate, but saw the relationship as a living breathing thing, that needed a lot of hard work but was worthwhile. 

The most significant major shift,, happened about a year ago. I finally got an opportunity to do work I loved.. While writing has always been a passion, I did not enjoy it as a job – as my primary source of income.

I did not expect to enjoy coaching as much as I did. It started when I became an LMI licensee, and then moving into OD, executive and life coaching, I have found a lot of meaning in my work. 

Although coaching sessions demand a lot of personal energy, I find myself energised and excited after a really great session. It has also allowed me to connect with a lot of very interesting people through my coaching classes and the community I’ve joined. 

In a way, I found my Ikigai – a thing I’d been searching for, for a long time..

I’m entering a new decade tomorrow, a little more sure of myself, and with a few less hangups about who or where I’m supposed to be. I haven’t figured it all out yet, if anything, far from it, but I guess knowing that makes the ride more interesting. 

I’m looking forward to another decade full of adventures, bumps and bruises. Who knows what it will bring, but at least this time, I can go in with an open mind, and zero expectations.

Photo by Lisanne van Elsen on Unsplash

That 2020 has been a strange year is true of every single human. When we started the year, COVID was a foreign problem, something barely on the speck of the horizon. 

But I’m not writing this to talk about the innumerable ways our lives have changed, for two reasons. 

Firstly, we have all lived it. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly – that experience of change has been unique for each and every single individual – and there is nothing particularly noteworthy about my experience, besides perhaps that I eventually contracted the disease – an experience that I’ve already documented extensively.

What 2020 has also been about for me is timing.

Early this year, after a long search, my partner moved into a lovely flat in Bandra. We had been looking for an April 1 move date, but our landlord insisting on starting a lease in early March.

Two weeks later, right after we got all our major additional furniture in place, India officially went into lockdown. 

It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly. 

I would have been miserable at my old place, and wouldn’t have been able to feel settled.

In May, the circumstances that led us to adopt our puppy, Angel, were similar. I had planned to get Angel for a friend and we were to adopt another dog, a beautiful four year old cocker spaniel named Zorro. 

Our adoption of Zorro, unfortunately, fell through. The very next day, our original arrangements for Angel fell through. 

After a brief discussion, my partner and I decided to adopt Angel. It was one of the best things we ever did. She is truly special and has brought a lot of joy into our lives, and no small amount of humour and love.

We are never bored, because there is always something to be shredded, or dug, or barked at. It made our lockdown experience a lot more fun.

Three days later, our housekeeper, bored by 1.5 months at home, decided to come back, something that made us taking care of a three-month-old puppy, much easier (potty training anyone?).

Fast forward to November. I had planned a trip to Delhi to surprise my mother for her birthday. 

I landed on the 12th. On the 13th, her birthday, both my parents tested positive. 

When I developed fever 4-5 days later, I went for a RT-PCR test. As some of you may have already read, I was negative.

I tested too early. 

Why was this significant? Because when my mother was hospitalised a week later, and needed plasma, my father was still under home quarantine. He could not leave the house. 

Thanks to my (likely false) negative result, I was able to do the running around (in a safe socially distant way), and contribute significantly towards her recovery. She is stronger than ever, thanks to the kindness of a few COVID survivors who stepped up to donate plasma.

I was also fortunate that in the week where I was very ill with COVID, my evening coaching classes (Monday to Wednesday 8-10 pm) were on Thanksgiving break. 

These are small coincidences yes, but significant enough to make a difficult year, a little easier.

While 2020 has been a challenging year for me, I can’t help but feel the universe was taking care of me in its own way. 

I have many goals for 2021, and like most of you I hope it will be a much better year. But I also find myself unable to complain much about my plight.

Even as I struggle with mental health issues post-COVID and my energy levels fluctuate, I am also incredibly grateful for the year that was, and all the small serendipitous moments I experienced.

I am incredibly privileged in so many different subtle, but important ways, I would like to keep this in perspective in 2021: 

I have never been a fan of toxic positivity, and I’m not about to start now. But I will practice a greater acceptance of the good and the bad, and a feeling that it will all fall into place the way it is meant to.

When we shift our mindset, we shift our reaction to the mixed bag that is fate. And that’s all I can hope to do, to move forward, one baby step at a time, and to remember to count my blessings.

That thought gives me a great feeling of hope for the year to come.

Happy New Year folks! I’ll see you on the other side

I have always been clumsy, but since Friday, have had a serious case of butter fingers. My limbs felt weak, and still do. I fumbled trying to put on a pair of earrings dropping one in the process. At night I toss and turn trying to find a position that doesn’t make the tightness in my chest worse.

I can’t walk at the pace that I used to, I can’t practice ashtanga or any form of yoga besides gentle hatha, and I’m terrified of going jogging because of the horror stories I’ve heard of 40 somethings jogging and dropping dead of heart attacks.

I do my best to maintain a light work schedule but it’s invariably the one place I fail. For everyone else the pace of online meetings remains and when I can’t keep up I fear I come across as a flake. 

With all this going on COVID has taken a bit of a psychological toll on me. 

Anytime anything happens – a muscle spasm, an ache, a tremor, I wonder if it’s because I had COVID. And then I wonder if it’s just a minor ache or pain I would have ignored normally, is it is the after effects of COVID.

This fear is not rational. It seizes me when I’m trying to fall asleep, or when I get out of breath on a walk during the day. It frightens me because I do not know what to expect, and the world is awash with horror stories. 

Ironically, I never had this much anxiety while I actually had covid. I knew the weakness and fever came with the territory. 

Don’t get me wrong it was still not an experience I would recommend to anyone, especially someone who is used to being independent and active. 

But at least you know for the period of the illness that you will feel terrible and you just don’t worry unless your fever goes too high or your oxygen too low. At least that’s what I told myself. I am in no way a medical expert! 

However while I knew the weakness would continue, what I wasn’t prepared for was the headspace COVID would take.

It is always there at the back of my mind, lurking, waiting to surface. 

While I know I need to be careful, the stories that trickle to me of various people who have gotten very sick again or died from being careless have spooked me.

Compounding this all is my own building frustration with my limitations of my body. One too many meetings? I can’t get out of bed the next day. Walked too much? I can barely stand. Went to sleep at 12 am instead of 10:30 pm? My hands and legs tremble and I find it difficult to function. If I drink less than three litres of water a day, I wake up dehydrated. 

I’ve also led a very unequal existence with regard to my partner, who hasn’t had COVID. Walking the dog used to be a 50/50 activity but now is 90/10. Some days when I’m too tired he has to take care of meals or dishes. 

While he is a good guy and has never complained, I do feel guilt for not being able to participate fully because the tiniest bit of exertion and I’m down. 

And in general there is so much I want to do, so much I genuinely am excited to do. But I can’t do all these things because I have to take it slow.

While on some level I know this is good for me, so slow down, and to be humbled by this biological monster that has shut down the world, I also struggle to process the anxiety and the irrational fear that comes along with it. 

If I could clear the grip that COVID has on me psychologically it might be a little easier to deal with what is essentially my ego about my fitness. 

Would love to hear if others have had similar psychological trysts with this disease. 

[image error] Photo by 

[image error] Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

Good morning! I’m reporting straight from the hot zone. It is day 7 since my exposure to Corona 1 and Corona 2, aka Mom & Dad who tested positive for COVID the day after I arrived after a long and difficult eight month separation.

Forgive my humour but there are so few cheerful things about COVID, we have to snatch up small moments of laughter where we get them. 

At around 3 am On Tuesday morning (aka exposure + 4 days) I found myself in a half-crazed delirious fit of shivers. I took my temperature from an admittedly questionable digital thermometer. 99.8.

Shit.

Till now I was only worried about transmission. I forgot about that part of getting the disease that involved me actually getting sick. 

I took a crocin but found myself unable to sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning my fever just grew more intense, and spiked especially after (most ironically) waiting an hour in cold polluted Delhi air for a COVID test. 

I peaked at about 102.2 day before yesterday, and felt weakness and fatigue I cannot explain to you. I found it difficult to eat – both from not having an appetite and for finding the simple act of eating really exhausting. 

There was no way I’d be negative right? 

Although I did think positive (in a covid19 sort of way) my result was negative.

Doctors have told us there are two possibilities:

We tested too early – apparently it can take up to ten days to show upIt is a completely unrelated viral infection that I have contracted from somewhere else

In my head there’s a number #3 – that I’m having sympathy fever – because I am truly that weird.

The good news is, if I am negative again when I test on Saturday, I can fly back to Mumbai without worry. 

But still I’m anxious. What if it is somehow undetectable inside me and I do transmit it to others. What if I carry it back to my partner because of some technical failure of the test?

Is that even possible?

And how is it possible to be negative when I’m in a house full of COVID positives AND develop symptoms that are COVID like?

I guess it could be just another viral. But what a coincidence!

By Wednesday, having slept ten hours at night and one hour in the afternoon, I was almost starting to feel human again. 

Maybe this is just a coincidence I found myself thinking.

But I woke up at 5 am today with fever over 100, an upset tummy and a splitting pain behind my left eye, ear and side of head. Moving my head hurt and looking at bright lights hurt. 

I found myself without the willpower to find myself a snack to have the very strong fever medication that has been suggested to me from a dear friend who had covid recently – well I guess everyone has had covid recently. (and works!)

I slept some of it off and this morning it came down to 100. I was able to eat something and take my next dose of fever medicine. 

My family’s symptoms are still very much there but they’re not getting worse thankfully. Everyone is taking steam regularly and trying to keep themselves nourished and rest – all the things the doctor has ordered! 

I’ll keep you posted on the latest developments from my plot twist! Till then, stay safe, wear masks, and be responsible!