Dormancy

Dear Diary, 

I finally bid good riddance to that hellhole. From twenty thousand feet above, the night accentuated its golden terrains. I could see life dazzling through AirAsia’s oval glass. Oh, how I hated it! Mostly, the pale sea’s nasty winds, among other things. No more humid air or frizzy hair. During winters, erratic cyclones and cloudbursts would flood its roads. Lawmakers hardly cared to fix the mess. Champions of the blame games. Once, I nearly collapsed into a storm drain with my laptop and lunch bag. 

Tragedies aside, the city’s delicacies didn’t disappoint. I knew no place could match the authentic flavours of its street foods and biryanis. Even the cheapest item on a menu tasted like heaven. And all the best-sellers emerged from the dirtiest stalls. People were nosy crabs. Rotten beyond repair. Those that I worked for were odd products of the dark triad- nepotism, privilege, and unresolved childhood trauma. ‘Two and a half years a slave’ in this ruthless rat race. I vowed never to return. 

I pulled down the window shade and reclined for a quick nap, praying for my migraine to fade before we landed. Tucked under my fingers, Célestine Hitiura Vaite’s ‘Frangipani’ lay slit by a bookmark. Books have a way of descending upon us at the right moment. Decades ago, I picked it up at a second-hand bookshop in a fair. It slumbered through many seasons on my shelf. I planned to read and review it sooner, but halfway into the story, I had to hit the brakes. The news of my mother’s “Big C” wreaked havoc. She was immediately taken to the ER and underwent a double-major surgery. Death by a thousand cuts. I was pushed into an endless abyss by a fateful timeline split. Treatment sessions were torture. My whole being went through ruination and rebirth, just like her Chemo. 

My YouTube algos shifted from science documentaries to ‘How-to’ videos on colostomy bags. My shopping carts were stacked with home-care gowns and head scarves. As a caretaker, I was woefully unprepared. One night was all it took for a sheltered thirty-year-old to see the world for the grotesque thing it was. 

The paperback bore silent witness from the depths of my handbag. Diving into its brownish folds numbed my agony. A peculiar comfort enveloped me when I traced its cover art. Those embossed oil-pastel flowers gleamed at me with hope. I didn’t know until then that they were called “fran·juh·pa·nee” and kept pronouncing it “fran·gee·pa·nee”. How embarrassing! I switched all my toiletries to its flavour- soaps, scents, shower gels, bathing salts. I’d sit in my tub and smell the pages, like licking an orange popsicle on a rainy day. Immersive reading experience or something like that.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just touched down at Kempegowda International Airport in Bengaluru… The time is…Errr… 11:39 PM, and…ummm… the temperature outside is 24 degrees Celsius” 

Forty-five minutes later, our pilot’s crackling voice stirred me up. A placid wave of nostalgia swept me back to the homecoming days of Christmas. I gathered my stuff and joined the unruly queue. As a jet bridge appeared, I saw my life slowly turning technicolour. I loaded my baggage trolley and stepped outside Terminal 5. Bengaluru breathed out a warm welcome. “Ah!” I gasped as if being revived from an NDE. 

“Madam, you want taxi??” 

“Taxi Beka Madam?” 

“Taxi Chaahiye?” 

A potpourri of voices serenaded my arrival. I easily chose a pink cab. The driver collected my luggage with a smile. She had a blunt bob and a big red rose tattoo. It was close to midnight. As we rolled deep into the city’s heart, my soul began to thaw. Quaint optimism soothed my wounded heart. We drove in complete silence for about an hour. I GPayed her, punched in a well-deserved 5 stars, and entered my new apartment. Another fancy tombstone for a dead lake. The smell of fresh paint and varnish tried to redeem my headache. Packers and Movers had done a shoddy job. My room looked like a dump yard for bubble wrap. Scanning the ceilings and walls, I prepped myself for the gruelling week ahead. My legs and back gave out. I dropped down and dozed off on a beanbag in fetal position. Distant traffic sang lullabies of hope. 

My watch beeped at 6 AM. The first hit of Ananda Bhavan’s piping-hot filter coffee and complimentary banana cake sweetened my spirits. Granny was right. Places do matter. The Thirteenth-floor balcony hugged me tight. I feared whether that was an embrace of “You made it. It’s over!” or “Brace yourself. It’s coming.” 

My days passed, fueled by renewed love for new beginnings. Clean-ups, connections, and decluttering auspiciously chiselled the house into a home. I made my bed and dived under its crisp comforters. Sipping hibiscus tea, I finished the rest of the book. I closed my eyes and marinated in it for a while. Then, I scribbled “Thank you for staying through it all” on the dedication page. End of ritual. 

I slipped into slumber dreaming of a fresh start, ignoring the mild sting in my pelvis.

Resurgence

Dear Diary, 

What a year (derogatory)! All those twelve grapes failed me. Sorry about the gap. It’s my new job. I’ve jumped into a frying pan. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, kinda stuff. My pelvic pain doubled, and so did my workload. Corporate hustle made it easy to ignore the pain until one day, my body screamed ‘STOP!’ I had to book an appointment. As initial symptoms pointed towards GI issues, I took a bunch of tests to find the root cause. Cameras and Tubes violated my insides. 

“Everything looks normal. Drink more water. Take plenty of fibre.” was the standard advice. Probiotic pill boxes infested my vanity cabinet. 

A couple of months later, I sensed my discomfort flare up before periods and wane after. Hoping to end this madness, I met an empathetic, non-judgemental Gynec- a rare find for a single childfree woman in India. TVS, blood work, and Ultrasounds came back normal. There was, however, a minor spike in CA-125 levels due to benign fibroids. Much like what my mother had before her diagnosis. Temporarily, the doctor put me on Meprate. I frantically hunted for clues and recorded my symptoms every day on the Calendar to notice patterns and connect some dots. My mother’s reports bore many disturbing similarities. She’d say, “Oh, I had it at your age too! I couldn’t skip work. So painkillers helped.”

Her prior lack of awareness set off my warning bells. From time to time, I fed my medical summaries to a chatbot and sought its second opinion to speed up this investigation. My sentient partner was certain this was hormonal. Its warning emojis urged me to go for a CT scan and flagged me for “endometriosis”. Fancy word. 

My Doc readily agreed. And there it was …All clear… except for one little footnote. “Pelvic MRI advised to rule out endometriosis”. Three days later, they strapped me inside a cold tunnel. It thumped and whirred for two hours, scouring every inch of my abdomen. The doctor connected her findings to my 20-year-old cramps, and finally made an endo diagnosis. It was Grade 4, where my ovaries turned psycho and stuck to nearby organs. Phew! At least it wasn’t all in my head. The online discourse on this was diabolical. Reddit forums were riddled with desperate cries for help. Women branding themselves as “Endo warriors” demanded more research and funding. Basically, there’s no cure. 

“What if I continue to manage it with medication, Doc? Will I end up like my Mom?” 

“Probably” 

That was it. We set a date to defuse my ticking time bomb. I strangely wished to suffer one last cycle before the procedure, but got too weak for it. The OT resembled my school science lab. Chirpy interns got down to work on their first specimen for the day. Bright white LEDs dragged me into an icy nothingness. Anaesthesia is one hell of a drug. Robotic arms meticulously performed the exorcism to ward off my demon and its cyst-laden horns. Thanks to hired help, I got through the observation period and made it home safe and sound. 

Watching reels of fellow sufferers helped me pull through fearful nights. I went no contact to escape the schadenfreude-laced pity of my friends. I made an acrylic painting in bed like Freida Kahlo. It was of a Bull goring into Belle’s heart. An ode to my love life. I wondered if marriage should be reserved for the golden years. A celebration to consummate two people’s tolerance threshold. Situationships were my thing. Perhaps because I craved careless love that burnt bright and hot. Let’s say Cupid’s arrow hit its mark, and I found a perfect man. Some day, losing him to nature’s cruel mortality would be catastrophic compared to these hollow heartbreaks. Loving deeply is a risky business. I am not investing anymore. Aren’t we complicated works of art built with layers of endurance upon this bodily canvas? I ardently watched one movie every day. Humans were disappointing, but humans playing other humans weren’t. 

‘Out of the woods, at last? 

Will I ever chronicle my pain in past tense? 

Inheritance is a curse

I am tired of making T-charts. 

Desire sprouted through 

the wrinkles of my fertile brain. 

Swinging on the plank of life, 

Sailing on its ups and downs 

I want to be launched 

Into the eternal orb of light 

And rest upon emancipated clouds 

Please don’t applaud me for what I’ve become. 

The end won’t be that grand.’ 

My Notes app was littered with crazy ruminations. Wish I could journal like Ms Plath. The worst was yet to come. 

Blooming

Dear Diary,

It’s been six months. I did it again. I know. I am sorry. My life is a web of enticing dead ends. Invisible, untraceable, occult pain devoured my days. I am going to start a petition to make healing linear. It looked so easy in films when the injured hero got mended by tribal potions. I had all gods on speed dial. As my body adjusted to the shock of surgical menopause, a barrage of supplements was pumped in to keep its structures intact. My

bulky uterus left behind a parting gift and a “Not so soon” note. Microscopic endo cells and adhesions plagued my pelvis. My tissues twitched as if they were coated with battery acid. Nerve fibres stretched apart as threads in a String Art. Heating pads worked overtime; mood swings were on a mission to wipe me out, hot flashes and night sweats punished me for sacrificing my sacred parts, and even the slightest movement would trigger sensations of my intestines falling out. Most of the time, I’d stay deflated on my bathroom floor and stare at the ceiling. A dark entity panted next door, witnessing it all with a sadistic smirk. “Oh, just end it!” I pleaded. “You wish!” it scoffed. 

But with time and tablets, things got better by degrees. I am now a machine dependent on updates and patches to function half as ably as before. I hated Googling myself. Digital footprints of my past accolades laughed at this predicament. I’d console myself thinking postpartum must be worse than whatever this is. Imagine fighting for your life beside a wailing parasite. David Lynch was right. ‘Eraserhead’ is spiritual. I spent hours meandering through the mazes of apps, pink and blue. Snoozing and muting updates from ‘people I knew’ helped me master the art of nonchalance. So funny. “You are done. This is it!” 

My disparaging inner voices would screech now and then. 

Every night, I looked up and cursed the moon. To me, she is proof that God skipped therapy. Something within me bubbled with rage like Jupiter’s Great Red Spot. My phone wallpaper was a snap of NGC 6565 Planetary Nebula.

A cosmic corpse that appears to shine long after it’s gone. Is that my destiny too? 

I spoke to Mother every day. At first, from my bed; then restlessly from the sofa; and then, for a little while, from the balcony, where I eased into walking with one hand on my belly. Somewhat hunchbacked, I then strolled at the apartment park. What a terrible car crash all this was! 

Mom picked up after four rings. 

“Hi babyyyyy!” she screamed. 

“How are you, Amma?” I calmly responded. We talked for an hour. “Have you taken all the medicine?” 

“Did you eat on time?” 

“Slept well?” 

“Any pain?” 

Preludes to our usual banter. She gave me long pep talks about how special I was to her, how I was going to bounce back stronger and do much more in life. I’d quietly swallow my sobs at the other end of the line. We both understood what was at stake now. After all, this was a mutual rescue mission. We found absurd meanings in our dreams and nightmares. A pang of shame hit me when I regretted my cruel absence during her recovery. Any time she had a follow-up, my panic attacks soared. I gave her everything except my company. I shut down and distanced myself from the sticky spots like a coward. Kudos to my tried-and-tested coping mechanism. I lived for her

silly selfies. My strength doubled when she went back from pixie cuts to ponytails. 

My evenings were enchanted by Bengaluru’s chilly winds and monsoon mists. It was the season of pink trumpets and bougainvilleas. I found a secluded space with six large concrete benches enclosed by thick foliage. I stomped on their silhouettes and gently sat under a tree. My frail muscles rebelled against this development. And then, something softly landed on my shoulder. I shuddered and flicked it away, mistaking it for a paper plane. Without taking any offence, it drifted towards my lap. Egg-white, pointy petals stained with yolky yellow at the centre. I didn’t know they had variations. This one was a Stenophylla. Fresh and subtle. I looked around and found a few hurt by dirt and footsteps. I picked them up one by one and placed them near their mother’s roots. 

“You again?” I whispered, blurry-eyed. 

“Of course,” they echoed through the clicks of lizards.