For Maya, fifteen-years later

Loss moves in mysterious ways. It's a searing shapeshifter - formless fog one day, dazzlingly clear flashback another. A mangled heart. A mess of sorrow and rage and denial. But mostly it just is. Immutable. Enduring. Endless.

My Amma died fifteen years ago today. In the 5,479 days since, I've pined for her, pushed her away, picked myself up and struck a fragile truce with her absence.

The first years were intolerable. My beautiful, bright-eyed, beloved mother, gone at fifty. I'll be forty-two next month. That's how young she was.

Beautiful. Bright-eyed. Beloved. Such platitudes. They belong in obituaries, not a daughter's tribute to a parent. But there's some comfort in their vagueness, because it's devastating to remember those warm, finely-lined hands, the pearl-drops worn everyday, the neat bob, parted to one side, the letters asking if I was eating my vegetables, the eyes that lit up when I entered the room.

In these fifteen years, I've moved forward, but never on. I've made a new life, in a new home, in a new land, with a boy and a man who make my eyes twinkle with the same joy. I struggle to imagine her in a reality so alien to the one we once shared. Yet, she walks with me today and everyday. 

I tell Adil that I'm thinking of my Amma. That she died many years ago. That I miss her. "Did she love you", he asks? "Very dearly', I reply. "But you can still love someone after you die, Amma", he says. "Yes, Adu. You're absolutely right."

For Bear, on his 50th

Every single year, on my birthday, Ranabir writes me a letter. It’s a love letter, reflecting on the year gone by and contemplating all that lies ahead - travels, family projects, personal goals, new adventures. It’s a gift I genuinely look forward to, read with delight and save in my special box of treasures. The thing is, I’ve never written back. But today, I will. So Bear, on this, the most special of birthdays, here is MY, very public, love letter to YOU.

My dearest Bear,

On the very first day of my visit to Houston, many months before we were engaged, your best buddy Rishad, whom I’d never met before, walked over and welcomed me with the warmest hug. After much fine wine and silly conversation, when you stepped away for a moment, he looked me in the eye and said, “Ranabir is the most incredible person I know. He’s the kind of man I’d want to introduce to my sister.” I’ll never forget that moment (even if Rishad denies he ever said it).

So on a gorgeous March day in 2010, when you proposed on the terrace of an exquisite fort palace in Rajasthan, I already knew that I’d be marrying the kindest, gentlest man I’d ever met.

We’ve been together for almost seven years now. We’ve laughed and fought and kissed and made-up - more times than I can remember - but I’m still sure that I’m married to the kindest, gentlest man I know.

And then, of course, ADIL ROHAN DUTT arrived, bringing with him boundless joy and endless sleep deprivation. From quibbling over where to go for dinner, or which film to watch, we were suddenly arguing about whose turn it was to change the dirty diaper and who was on the night-shift when the baby cried - which was at least ten times, EVERY.SINGLE.NIGHT. There truly is nothing less romantic than cleaning up a major diaper blow-out, even if it’s the only thing you’ve done together ALL.DAY.

Incidentally, thank you for drawing up our five year spending report - the kind of thing you do in your spare-time (eye-roll) - and calculating that our alcohol expenditure spiked dramatically, and unsurprisingly in 2013 - the year after Adu was born!

Now, at three, Adu is funny and affectionate, defiant and maddening, a real little three-nager. My greatest joy has been witnessing your growth into parenthood and watching you fall in love with each other. I’m not even slightly jealous that Adil gets the first (and best) hugs, when you get home from the airport. You're now even a legitimate Soccer Dad (apart from the minivan, of course!)

They say that the most important thing that we, as parents, can do for our children, is to love and respect each other whole-heartedly. At this, I know we are succeeding, over and over again. In spite of ALL of our differences, of which there are MANY, there’s not the shadow of a doubt that we are, and continue to be, in love with each other - even if I ask you if you still love me, EVERY.SINGLE.DAY.

One of my happiest, most comfortable feelings, is being in the same room as you, quietly doing my own thing, while you do yours. (This, of course, only happens when a certain person is away at preschool.) Your presence is serene and non-demanding, secure and authentic. It’s what’s helped me battle powerful personal demons and become more and more of the person I want and am meant to be - truly the greatest gift we can give one another.

Together, we’ve watched Adil learn how to crawl, take his first steps and speak his first words. We blinked, and he was already in preschool. I’m afraid to look away and find that he’s already graduating high-school. As our baby journeys from boyhood to manhood, my greatest hope for him, is a life that’s as rich in friendship, as yours and a personality that’s as full of your special brand of kindness and gentleness. However, I will not complain if he doesn’t inherit your unbelievable messiness, but given how cluttered our house is most of the time, I suspect he already has!

Every night, at bedtime, you and I exchange our three things - one thing we appreciate about each other, one thing we appreciate about ourselves and one thing that made our day special.

So here are my three things - not just for today, but for always.

I’m grateful that you asked me to marry you.

I’m grateful that I said yes.

And I’m grateful for our life together - surrounded by incredible friends, immense love and infinite possibilities.

It's a beautiful, BEAUTIFUL, life and I couldn’t imagine living it with anyone but you and Adu.

All my love,
Deepa

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Fine

A vengeful and ferocious depression had swallowed me whole. For months, I occupied it's murky and desolate innards, barely remembering a life in the light. And then one day, I determinedly clawed my way back up, pried open it's fanged jowl and catapulted myself out.

A potent cocktail of intensive therapy, painstakingly titrated medication and radical self-care, had conspired to mend my head and my heart. 

What's most frightening about descending into a chronic depression, is how rapidly you forget the sensation of well-being. But more petrifying, by far, is coming up for air, knowing how incredibly fragile and ephemeral that recovery can be.

I continue to live with a tempestuous toddler. He regales and torments me. He charms and challenges me. He forces me out - of home, of comfort zones, of myself. But what was once unrelenting overwhelm, is now organized chaos. 

With eyes shut, I occasionally attempt to recall those days of untold despair. I cannot, truly, and am incredibly grateful for that fact. Yet, I'm fully-aware that there's always darkness lurking, just around the corner, taunting and tempting me into re-entering it's bleak, but familiar confines. But I've found my way out once, and I will, again. And again.