The Science of Sharing

Yesterday I shared a print campaign of toothpaste, which I thought would win the advertising awards in the next season in my wall.

This week sometime, someone I know very well, shared a video on my wall, saying he knew I’d find it funny.

Last week, a friend of mine retweeted a tweet by a celebrity he is a fan of.

Studies say videos of puppies and babies, shot with mobile phones, get more shares/retweets/repins, compared to those shot by the best film makers in the business, because most people find innocent animals more interesting, than the brand who invested millions on the filmmaker.

Then again, every day I attend a meeting where brand managers are talking about “engaging their customers” online.

But why on earth would I want a furniture shop to haunt me every time I log on?

An anti-dandruff shampoo give me gyan on hair care on my facebook wall?

A jam, to tweet me pictures of fruits and facts about the nutrition value?

Which brings me to my topic, why brands on social media need to go beyond likes and instead look at sharable content?

What is sharing in the real world (not social media)?

If I had to share a cake, the one thing I assume is 

"Someone else may have made this cake, but I bought it and now this is MY cake" 

IF I want to share it, I think,  "Here you can have some MY cake" 

If you want me to share something about your brand it has to somewhere be belong to ME, whole of me, a thing about me, something I like, something I relate to, something I think you need, or can have. 

It’s about I. It's about me. 

So, now that I know it’s mine.  Ill share it.

Forget brands for a moment.

What is it that I readily share in life? What makes me immediately log on to social networking and motivates me to post something?

I want to share news about my achievements, about my child's milestone, or recognition given to me by the society, a big news about the company I work for, or a luxury item I purchased, or a fabulous place I visited.

And sometimes a not so pleasant experience of mine. 

Again it's about me.

So in social media you see a lot of shares (and not likes) about things to do with me, myself, my life. 

So if brands touch me, in a very personal way, I'll share.

But then again we do share ads we like, ideas we love, things we find funny, things I know that you will find funny, or inspirational, or informative. 

Do note. It's about me. 

Why do I share?

I share to be seen as clever. 

I share to be seen as informed. 

I share to be seen motivated.

I share to be seen happening.

I share to be seen upmarket. 

I share to be seen with a sense of humour.

I share because I care (about myself)

Brands term their presence on social media to stay engaged with their customers. But actually, most of the times it’s about them, and not about me.

So, Hey you brands! When you post something about yourself, I don't want to know things about you, I want to know how that makes me feel good about myself. 

Only then I'll share.

So, for all the times you shared things and people asked you why you did. Remember it was your cake, and they should be grateful you agreed to let them have a piece of it.

Unfortunately brands can’t think that way.

Yeh Kutta Katata Hain?

The question that hounds every pet parent.

I have a problem with every word in that question. A big problem.

You walk on the road. You open your house door. You enter a lift. You sit in a garden doing nothing. You chill on the beach - and perpetually you are asked this question by strangers giving cheeky smiles.

Anyone with a dog whatever size, whatever breed, whatever age is asked this question and every pet parent would know this very well.

Even Tiara, my Labrador with eyes that can make the hardest heart melt, is looked at with suspicion and then within seconds her integrity is questioned.

Let’s break this question into four parts. 

It looks like a simple four worded sentence, but it’s far more complicated than you think.

First word- “Yeh”

What is Yeh? Is this an object? Is it like asking a shopkeeper the price of a soap? “Yeh” kitne ka hain? For God’s sake this is a living thing. I don’t expect people to refer animals with a dignatory “Aap” or slightly casual version like – “Tum”. In fact even a derogatory “Tu” would do in this case. But Yeh is something I just cringe when I hear. (I don’t expect people to come and say “Behenji Aap katate ho?”) So please people, back off if you can’t give it the basic expression.

Next word- Kutta.

It’s almost abusive. Maybe it’s the dictionary word for dog, but I still have a problem. Forget Kutta, I don’t even use the word ‘dog’, when I am talking about my pet. I’m not for banning the word, since banning things is in fashion these days. But this is my personal pet almost childlike (in many cases more than childlike), so please don’t call it Kutta. I refer my pet as doggie or by name.

Now when it comes to cats I am a little biased more towards dogs. Actually ‘little’ is an absolute downplaying. I don’t like cats. OK I’m saying it, I hate cats. (It’s my doggie instinct I think). So I don’t mind if your call a cat a cat, and not catty and even Billi is fine by me- but don’t call my pet Kutta.

“Kutte Kaminey” is something I wish Dharmendra didn’t make famous for saying in the same breath.

Dog is man’s best friend. A dog is loyal. A dog’s love and friendship is unconditional. It’s not with malice, or string attached. They aren’t rascals. So when did these both words come together in the first place.

In fact a dog will never drink your blood also. Unlike, what the famous dialog writer fathomed. I think he was a cat lover- that man, who made this loving animal sound like a Dracula like thing!

Katata?

So does the dog have no other work besides biting?

When a stranger approaches my pet Tiara or any doggie for that matter, she looks at them endearingly. She wags her tail uncontrollably. She invites you to stroke her head. She will readily give a paw. She will also allow your little toddler to pull her ears. And you know what most dogs will even allow you to put you hand in its mouth – and not bite. You heard that right.

Most dogs wont bite and I know I gave away the plot in that sentence by using the word most. But that’s true. Most cats won’t like water. Most horses like running. But personal preferences and temperaments differ right. That makes us unique. But yes, most dogs won’t bite you if you don’t mean harm. And if he does intend biting you, he will let you know much before his teeth sink in your skin. There will be a growl. There will be a bark. There will be a warning snap and then there will be a bite.

Most ‘pet’ dogs won’t bite for any reason (Stray dogs are differently bred, and their circumstances and fears are different). It’s not that our pets will go around simply biting everyone and we’ll be sitting on a beach side with it - unleashed, waiting for them to find their next meal.

If someone means harm, I hope and I genuinely doubt that in some situation someday my doggie will rise to the occasion and - does bite. But most of us pet parents, will never know, because heroic stories is one thing, but we all secretly doubt that even if a robber enters the house, if our dear little pet will turn into The Hulk or will it just scamper away to the closest hiding place, waiting and hoping for the whole thing to end so he can wag his tail and give us company after it’s all done by begging for a treat.

Hain?

In this context Hain is meant something between “Yes” and “All the time?”

Tu subah uththe hi pissab karta hain?

Tujhe rasgulley pasand hain?

Tu school jata hain?

For Dogs sake, why are you making assumptions? Do you walk to a cute little infant who you just can’t resist and say, “If I pull his cute cheeks, will he cry?”

I don’t recall any stranger coming and asking me this question before trying to get my daughters attention when she was in my or my wife’s arms.

Though most infants will cry on seeing a stranger approaching or giving a hand or pulling its cheeks. Yet strangers happily go around doing it, knowing that the child will - and will cry and then they cheekily walk away leaving the already hassled mother to complete the task and calm the child down.

So my answer in most cases when someone asks me that ridiculous question if Tiara bites is – 

Haan! Bahut zor se katata hain. In fact who aapka hi intezaar kar rahan tha. Usse bahut bhook lagi hain. (She bites really hard, and has been waiting all day for someone like you to walk past by. She’s hungry.)

So just for the record- Dogs can bite and do bite.

They bite when they sense fear. Did you know Dogs are experts at reading body language? In fact they can actually and really smell it, because in fear, a human being's sweat glands get more active and produce a slight body odour, which a dog can easily smell.

In conclusion…

If you don’t own a dog and yet like to walk up to strange dogs and pat them, ask a different question, like…

What’s his name?

Is it a male/ female? (Don’t stare at its privates to check).

How old is he/she?

What breed is this?

Is he/she playful is a more decent way of asking.

If you are a pet owner- and are hounded by this question every time you go for a walk- you know my answer, and there are no copyrights to using it.

PS: This article is going to piss off a lot of people I know. If you have a different point of view, I'm all ears. Apologies to anyone with a previous history of being bitten in childhood or later on behalf of the entire doggie community. Give them another chance please. Start with Tiara. Doors open always.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

I have faint memories of my father taking me to the salon. I used to hate the idea of sitting on the wooden plank the barber placed between the handles of the chair, so he could raise me higher to a comfortable height for him to cut. At four, I was barely 4 feet tall, and the hairstyle was normally dictated by my school rules. 

Short karna hain.

Which meant I would land up looking like a porcupine at the end of the procedure. In fact I do recall boys in school calling me names like Porcupine - I didn't even care.

This soon transitioned to something called Tapeli cut. Tapeli cut is what would happen if I took a round cooking vessel and put it on your head, and cut whatever was visible. Later this was popularly known as pineapple cut, or mushroom cut.

As the hairdresser cut my hair, I would look around at the frames, which were mostly the ancestors of the owner, the rhombus shaped comb, which is almost antique in today’s age, the left over hair dyes in the tea cups with broken handles, the slab of alum, and the rough tiles. What interested me most then was the Dukes lemonade bottle which had a shiny metal spray. I always wished owning one for some silly reason. 

My thoughts then were simple. 

I wouldn't bother at the outcome of the cut. I was more concerned about how many overs of the cricket match I had missed in the building compound, or how much more time I would have been left with to play a game of football.

Once done I would rush out without bothering to pay or tip, because Dad would handle all that after his cut, shave and head massage.

I soon outgrew the ancestral salon and heard of my school friends going to an upmarket salon down the road, called - Precious.

I asked my father if I could go for a haircut to Precious with a friend. I did sense his displeasure then, but while I thought it was because of the cost, it was actually because he lost out on time with me to do some guy bonding. 

But I had moved on, and he didn't want to clip my wings.

Precious was a clean, granite floored salon with lots of stylists.

Men were reading magazines, watching television, and talking in English to each other. I waited for my turn and soon was whisked away to a seat. I cringed on the thought of him asking me to sit on that plank. But he didn't.

He simply turned a ship like wheel behind the chair which automatically lifted me a few inches above and voila, I was a grown up!

I was sold! 

So often I visited this new find of mine, that I had a stylist who was assigned to me, and knew my hair better than me. 

I styled it in all sorts of ways, mushrooms, pineapple, cross side locks and many more. 

Until that one day when he asked me.

“Shave karogey?”

What did you say? Shave? And me?

I mean, I had tried using my Dad’s razor just to see what it feels like, hoping that one day I’ll have a beard and look all manly. But the fact that an outsider felt the need for me to 
shave was like a huge achievement for me. A milestone.

I shyly said “No” but inside I was beaming with delight!

I spent the rest of the evening and night observing my newly found facial hair. I was becoming a grown up. Which meant, I’ll go to college, drive a car, go to discs, allowed to see an adult movie in Regal or Eros theater, and not stopped while riding a bike!

____________________

My sister suggested that I grow my hair before I go to college. So I grew my hair in the vacation when school was done with.

It grew till my shoulder, really long.

One evening, when I was alone at home, I saw a tube and bottle of hair color, and Ammonia Hydro-chloride. Without a thought, I smeared the cream and liquid all over my hair and forgot about it. 

Until a friend asked me a few days later if I had colored my hair. I denied until I recalled what I had done a few days back.

You know what, my hair looked cool. 

Awesome- Golden Brown. Colored by 'Yours Truly'

I didn’t need a professional stylists to colour my hair, I did it myself, and most importantly I carried it well, and that’s what made all the difference.

For 2 years of college I was known by my hair colour and style. Quiet a stud I felt I was. 
:-D


Until one day, when a guy came up and told me, “Without your hair you are nothing!”. 
I took that to heart and decided to shave my head off and prove a point.

The barber asked me thrice.

Pakka na? Pakka na? Pakka na?
And with each time I said Yes, my voice grew weaker. But it was too late.
I was Bald.

Bald to that level that I couldn’t recognize myself anymore. 
I felt People ignored me at college, (but actually they didnt recognize me). I lost my confidence. I lost friends. Not because of my hair, but because I was ashamed of myself. 

Was that guy right? Was I nothing because of my hair? Will I land up being a no one?  I had people calling me Takloo and making fun of me. 

It was weird and horrible.

Probably the darkest phase of my life.

Soon my hair grew back, and I grew it as long as it could be tolerated in office.

Bored of the routine and standard cut, a friend suggested me to visit Juice (now known as b:blunt). The same place which was known for cutting the revolutionary hair styles for Dil Chahta Hain – The cult movie.

I booked an appointment through the phone speaking in my thickest accent, because the voice on the other side was equally thick. 

You know how it is when a Gora speaks to you, and you respond back with the same.

We happened to be in Bangkok for a week and almost spoke Thai accented English.

Understaaaaand?

Same thing happened when I was in Dubai.

Undderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrstood?

So, I landed up in front of this chic looking stylist feeling the texture of my hair. She cut my hair really well. She gave me spikes. That turned into my identity for many many years.

I visited various good salons after that. Once even Adhuna Akhtar herself styled my hair! 

The same Adhuna who actually had cut Aamir Khans hair in that cult movie. That’s different that she cut it at a event called Hairathon, where India’s best hair stylist were cutting hair for just Five hundred rupees for some charity cause.

______________________

Years later, trips to the barber were a shave, and a haircut.

And then it happened.

Sir, Aapke baal jhad rahein hain. Aap yeh tel lagao.
(Sir apply this oil, you hair is thinning and falling)

Aaaarrrggghhh!

I was balding!!!!!! Nooooooo!

I disregarded his opinion and solution, and chose to live in the bliss of ignorance.
But the man had ruined my life in a moment.

Now every time they showed me the mirror after a cut, I would take a sneak peek at the slowly forming bald patch instead.

Soon the requests turned to “Sir, dye karogey?”

I feared going bald with the remainders being grey.

Why was going bald so difficult for me? And then it struck me. 

Was it that guy who told me, that without my hair I’m nothing? Would I lose friends again? Would I lose confidence? Is this going to be a déjà vu of those dark times? Would people call me takloo again?

In this darkness, I saw a rising shiny sun. 

No not a shiny bald oily patch. 

I meant a actual ray of hope.

I saw the Indian cricket captain- MS Dhoni, shaving his head off after the victory of the world cup in 2011. I saw Shahid Kapoor shave his head for Haider. Bruce Willis and my favorite Vin Diesel were bald. I could look like a movie star. 

All I had to do was muscle up now, right? 

Another problem area!

Then I thought - What the heck! Life may have taken a bit of my hair today, but not my confidence.

The again, my hair may have got thinner but definitely not my waist size.

Aargh! Can I stop being so critical about myself. 

And I ask you - Can you stop being critical about yourself? 

Looks are determined by your confidence to carry yourself. 

We all are normally very critical of ourselves in front of the mirror, especially when it is the mirror of a salon. Suddenly, those 30 odd minutes spent in front of the salon mirror, make you conscious of you double chin, wrinkles, dark circles, pimples, etc etc etc etc. Thats all you seem to notice doing nothing. 

As for me, I’m still facing the mirror and wondering if I should consider hair transplant, or maybe that hair growing oil or the gym and that protein supplement or that dietician, that exercise routine... endless.

____________________

Over half of people globally agree that when it comes to how they look, they are their own worst beauty critic. 

Documented in an award winning film, Real Beauty Sketches, Dove explores how women view their own beauty in contrast to what others see.

The results show clearly that when it comes to the way we look, the biggest beauty pressure is the pressure we put on ourselves.

On a final note. 

Spend sometime in front of your friendly room mirror (You know which one I am talking about, don't you).

The same one where guys take off their shirts and check their non-existing yet blossoming muscles. And girls wear their old clothes which barely fit now and tell themselves that are still thin.

Ask that mirror and you will know that you are awesome! 

Because You are...

_______________________

See the Dove commercial here- Highly recommended

Name your Pain

It’s been more than 7 years that I have been living with a chronic pain in my legs, which slowly moved to my wrists and eventually... in my head, they say. 

If you spend half an hour with me you will see me stretching my legs, pressing my calves or flicking my wrist, unusually.

In one of the conversations with my Dad, who has a similar problem, I learned that even his grandmother had the same issue. So obviously this was something hereditary that was being passed on like a curse to our family.

My visits to the doctors started with an Ortho who doubted it to be Gout, but the uric acid levels were only slightly high which didn't justify the immense pain I was experiencing. Nevertheless I took the medication and followed the diet religiously for a month.
At the end of which I didn't experience any relief. 

Taking me to the second doctor.

A neurologist who accused me of being hyperactive, and did some tests which involved small electric shocks in my hands. Reports came (shockingly) normal.

Some doctors conveniently blamed bad posture and the long hours spent on the computer, assuming that every young male is a software engineer.

A prominent Rheumatologist, in a even more prominent hospital, suspected Rheumatoid Arthritis. Negative.

I also went to a doctor whose clientele included some of the top cricketers, and actors of India. “Fibromyalgia” he said, without blinking. So convincing was his explanation that I was left in complete awe of him. “No wonder all these top guys go to him”, I thought. He recommended a physiotherapy session at a high end clinic. Upbeat with the path forward and optimistic in my approach I spoke to the physio who was going to conduct my sessions.

“Fibromyalgia is a name we doctors give to a problem we don’t understand!” said the physio coldly. So cold that it poured water over all my expectations (You know the Hindi saying)

I read a report about Blackberry Thumb, caused by excessive usage of your smart phone, and did a week of daily sessions of expensive ultrasound radiation therapy. Turns out my smart decision was quiet dumb.

I then happened to meet a doctor who was a pain specialist. She asked me a question that shocked me out of my wits. “Have you ever been involved in a car accident?”

Many years back. One of the wild partying nights, I had crashed a friend’s car into a concrete divider. (No, I can’t call the friend- a friend anymore, or the car- a car). So bad was the bang that when the car was towed, it looked like a steel cupboard being dragged, because all the wheels had either rolled away or were crushed in the bang. Surprisingly and miraculously I was unhurt and walked away from the whole incident.  But that’s a whole new story all together.

This particular pain specialist doctor told me that the impact of the crash may have left a sprain in my neck because of which the pain radiated to my hands and legs. So great, I now had a spondylosis of the neck also.

Anyway, this was the most convincing diagnosis from all the doctors I had met. The case was wide open now. I was thrilled to know that with a few injections in my legs and neck I would be cured of this pain. I took almost 10 injections all over. Painful 10 injections, all because I was promised that the relief was going to be worth this ordeal.

And it worked. Worked like magic.

The pain was no more...for about 2 days...until the anesthesia wore off.

She had given me a mild local anesthesia!!!!!!!!!!

In a matter of a year I had visited over 15 doctors who diagnosed me for everything under the sun, including a cancer. 

This is not including the amount of doctors I was to visit on recommendations from friends and family.

In between all this, was Mr. Know it all, the Google search. 

I googled the symptoms, and obviously thought I was going to die because that was most internet searches about your health problems make you feel is going to happen. 

I almost wrote my will (on a bus ticket, I didn't have much to leave behind). 

I was surprised to find hundreds of people who were suffering from pain that was undiagnosed and were frantically finding some clue about it.

One such search landed me on a blogger's page that talked about a relatively unknown disease called, Restless Leg Syndrome, which caused an urge to keep moving your legs, especially at night.

That’s it, I said. 

Restless leg syndrome. 

Hereditary. Chronic. Intensifies at night. Yes. Yes. Yes! All boxes checked.

So I went, proud with my search, print outs, possible treatments, drug information and proof documents to a very well known, well read, Ortho, and gave him a version of my diagnosis. In my mind I was excited to see how he would react to my expertise.

“Restless leg syndrome?” he laughed. “I haven’t heard of such a thing in 30 years of practice".

I was shocked. To my dismay this wasn't even a valid medical disease, and according to him a figment of someone’s imagination.

I was ready to accept his point of view, but all I wanted was a name to this disease that was slowing draining me of my energy and life.

Over time I accepted that maybe the doctors were right.

This thing was in my head.

Finally my last visit was to a psychiatrist, who conveniently put me on an antidepressant and something for anxiety. I happily took them because that was the only way left. Block the thought that says- It’s paining.

So cutting the long long story short. I went through allopathy, homeopathy, ayurveda, yoga, reiki, physiotherapy, radiotherapy and every bloody ‘apy’ that exists, but my pain was right there. 
In the bargain my wife has almost become an expert in foot massage therapy!

I was suffering from a nameless, faceless, and unknown disease and all I wanted was someone to give it a name.

But no one could.

No one?

Was it so unique that it was yet to be discovered?

Did you know, some diseases are named for the scientists or doctors who had a hand in discovering them. Others got their names from a famous person who suffered from the disease.

Some gyan..

Alzheimer’s was first presented at a lecture by German psychiatrist and neuropathologist Dr. Alois Alzheimer.

Sir Joseph Lister is remembered for the bacterial infection named after him, Listeriosis. Listerine mouthwash was also named after him!

Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is commonly known as "Lou Gehrig's disease," named after the famous baseball player who was forced to retire after developing the disease.

Yes, the same ALS for which the who’s who and the who are you attempted the Ice Bucket Challenge.

Maybe, this was an opportunity for me to go down in history and have a disease or condition named after me – Aleem’s Disease or maybe The Merchant’s Syndrome.

So I thought, why did I want a name for my pain? 

Because I wanted to deal with it. I wanted to fight it. I wanted to know it’s game, how it works and how it functions, because I wanted to kill, shoo it away, get rid of it.

Because I hate it.

And then it struck me. I know someone who could give my pain a name.

Me!

So I named it.

I named it - The Lizard.

It didn't sound as glorious as the name I thought it was going to have, but I don’t fathom a disease named after me anyway.

A road, or a landmark, after me- maybe, but not a disease for sure.

So Lizard is not a medical name. It’s just the reptile I detest. I find it eerie that you can kill it but its tail still kind of stays alive. The way it walks silently on a wall and kills its prey. The thought of a lizard in a room gives me the creeps. Call me sissy if you want. But I just shudder at the sight of one.

Getting rid of a lizard, on my own, would be my biggest achievement because I can’t stand the thought of being in the same room as one.  

Yes, there have been occasions where I had to.

Once, when it was in my office and I gathered the courage to send it down the toilet flush. But to most that was a comic scene (including for my then to-be wife- Swetal) who was present and the incident (or joke) is still discussed at some parties on how I leaped when I got a feeling that it had climbed up my trousers.

The second time was when Samaira was about 3 months and in her crib sleeping, when a lizard walked dangerously close to her bed. My newly protective fatherly instincts, released a surge of adrenaline and I managed to shoo it out of the room.

So there it was, A Lizard.

The name of the pain that crept to my legs and hands every now and then, and all I had to do was brave up and shoo it away. Which I do. Everyday. Every time. All the time.

The pain has not gone. You will still see me stretching my legs, pressing my calves or flicking my wrist. But what I have managed to do is defeat the monster in my own way.

It still lives with me, in the same room. But I can see it, recognize it and choose to ignore it and sometimes kill it, even though a bit of it's tail still freaks me out.

_______________________________________________________

Pain - the most common word used by patients to doctors.

I hope and pray that this word that doctors hear every day from every patient is taken seriously every time. Because only that patient who suffers from that pain knows the strife that is caused by their monster, their reptile, their enemy, their battle.

I wait for the day that every person has the medical name for their disease or condition.

Till then, we can only call it names.

Telling a patient what the exact, and correct cause of their pain is definitely a major step towards control or cure. 

But if your story is similar to mine try this out-of-the-box method to overcome your pain, and do let me know what you call yours.

This is not my sob story. 

If I can change the way even one person can overcome their pain, this article is completely worth it. So please share it with anyone you know who is dealing with a pain, condition or health problem.

As for me, I’m on my way for my next 21km marathon and I'll make sure I defeat the Lizard and get my Finishers medal too.

A 'Grand' Mother

Dearest Samaira,

By the time you are old enough to read this, there might be no memory of the person who spent her last few years with only you on her mind, and whose last words were - your name.

The person who you lovingly called - Dadi.  Your grandmother.

Your Dadi was a jovial, well spoken, God fearing lady. Her laughter was an infectious one that echoed down the hallway and that was her trademark signature. Her smile was bright and sparkling and so was her warmth to everyone around her.

Walk into her room in the noon and she would be praying quietly and followed Christianity to her last breath, in spite of being married for over forty years to your Dadu, a Muslim. Like all mothers, she had tried hard to teach me about religion and God and was instrumental in shaping me the way I am today. She was the one who managed through hook and crook to get me into one of the city’s best schooling institutions. She was the one who would attend a lot of my parent-teacher meets. She worked for twenty-five years with one single firm as a humble steno typist. Her boss I have heard, called her Speedy Gonsalves. Which was a merger of her tremendous speed for typing and her maiden name. It also was a famous song then.

My early memories of her are of a lady who could drape her sari perfectly, wore her make-up everyday, which included bright lipsticks, and matching nail paint. Even though being less than 5 feet tall she had a vibrant personality and shone in a crowd of people.

She painstakingly fed me and my sisters and brought us up. It was never easy, as Dadu was a hard working salesman and travelling for days in a row was a part of his job. Right from getting 3 kids ready to go to school, to ensuring we are fed, bathed and done with our homework, she managed it all, and not once do I remember her complaining.

I fondly recall how she was such a connoisseur at picking fresh fish and cooking it to the best possible east Indian blend. She had once got live crabs and had challenged us to catch one of them, for prize money of five rupees. We were barely four years then, and had no guts to even make an attempt. Finally she gave up and picked them up like a pro and took them away, laughing.

With time, she fell ill often and gave up her job. My faint memories allow me to just recall her resting in bed for long hours, but she was always prompt in checking if we had our meals and bath.

Once in a while she would get up and cook us these exclusive kheema patties and bread pudding which she made from leftover breads.

There are three things I learnt from your Dadi in my life. These aren’t greatly philosophical or something you might have never heard till now. But it is the impact of her belief in these words that left a lasting impression on all of us.

1.       Forgive and Forget

2.       All that happens, happens for the best

3.       Pray

There are a few things I never picked up from her.
Save for a rainy day. Never lose your temper and to be patient.

After we moved to our new home, Dadi got even more unwell and would lie in bed for even longer hours. But never did she miss her prayers, twice a day and calling her sister and sister in law once a week on a specific day. The day she would miss the call she would get a call back from them wondering why she hadn’t called.

When we would travel on vacations without her, getting something for her was the most difficult thing, because her needs were so minimal. Maybe a pair of slippers, a handbag, a small cosmetic kit or maybe a foot scrub. That’s because her biggest gift was having us back home- safe and sound. On seeing us she would express her worry and say – I was praying for you everyday.

Over time we grew older, taller and stronger than her.

Often I would pull her leg over her Parksinsons which had her shaking her hand continuously. I would tell her that I could put a guitar in her hand and she could play all day long. Though it will sound mean of me now, but she always took it in her stride. Children are allowed that leeway with their parents.

I would catch her and make her smell my underarms as she was much shorter, and would love to hear her say Shhheeee Aleem!!!

Sometimes I would carry her around the house while she laughed and asked me to put her down.

I hadn’t realised that she was older yet wiser.

Shorter yet greater.

Weaker yet stronger.

Our last vacation together was in Diwali, 2010 to Matheran.

Vacations discussions at home were only about when to go, never where to go. Because we only went to one place all our lives-Matheran.  The horse rides, chikkis, monkeys, walks, and afternoon naps. They were beautiful moments that will stay with me for life.

This time, as always, she boarded the human rickshaw while we walked to the hotel. Usual ritual. As we needed someone to take and guard the bags while we relished the fresh air and lemon juice.

One evening, that October, we managed to convince her to come along with us to the lake. The weather was pleasantly sunny and windy. We managed to reach the lake just by sunset, when suddenly the weather did a volte face. Literally.

There was thundering and lighting, and a heavy downpour. We rushed for cover and found one in a shut down tea stall. We waited two hours till we finally decided to walk back to the hotel in the pouring rain. The rain gods were not willing to give up. It was dark and wet.

At her age, she put up a brave front and walked the distance.

When we went back all she said is God is great and – Good we had a torch, otherwise God knows what would happen.

A year later, the day you were to be born she was up all night at the hospital. She blessed you and was most pleased to see her new grandchild.

You would spend your afternoons sleeping beside her, sharing her pillow, holding her. You would question her all kinds of things and babble the few words your knew then. She took care of you in whatever capacity she could, and also sneaked you a lot of chocolates when no one was looking.

Your laugh was what kept her in best spirits, and often we would enter her room when she was sleeping and surprise her by tickling her or jumping on her.

Dadi’s last few months was where she proved her fighting spirit was nothing to be compared with.

It was Dadu’s birthday and everyone had gathered to spend it with him at home. It was a nice family gathering. Cake, Food and a lot of laughter. They were so happy seeing their grand kids playing around them. Nothing satisfied them more than having all their kids and grand kids under one roof.

Two days later, she had a massive brain stroke which left her paralytic. We rushed her to the hospital where they declared to us that she had only a few hours to live and we can inform the rest of the family.

But she hadn’t seen your face yet then and we didn’t know how much that meant to her.

Two months she battled life and death. You were not allowed in the ICU as you were just 2 years old. Those two months she hardly spoke, and sometimes only opened her eyes to see us.

After which we moved her to a nursing home for additional care.

Finally after that long gap we took you to meet her.

Her eyes glowed and she managed to move a bit. She noticed your hair clips. She kept taking your name and wanted to hear your stories. She smiled. The nursing staffs were surprised to see her progress, and you never failed to brighten up her spirits with all your antics and innocent words.

When it was time to go, she would moan in pain- Don’t go. And we would wait a few minutes more before she went off to sleep. I know for sure how disappointed she would be when she would open her eyes later to see you not around. Her body didn’t permit her to stay awake for longer.

For four months, every once a week, you would meet her. Talk to her. Play with her. Tease her and motivate her. She gave it her best.

One Sunday morning, you went with your Aunt to meet her at the hospital. The time you went without me and I learnt from your aunt that your Dadi did open her eyes and said only one word- your name- Samaira.

That same evening was your last visit to her with me, which wasn’t the same as all other trips were.

She was sleeping, and we prepared you by telling you to scream your loudest so we could pleasantly surprise her. You were excited and all prepared for your act. We reached her room, you took a deep breath and in your loudest pitch – Daaaaddddiiiii.

No response. Again. Daddddiiiiiiii. No response. For fifteen minutes you went on, and with every call, your spirit died a bit, till you finally gave up, but she didn’t open her eyes.

We walked away trying to coax you and tell you that she was tired and sleeping.

A few days later, she passed away peacefully in her sleep. Leaving us with only memories.

I took you to the graveyard the next day. To answer your question, I told you were going to Dadi’s garden. We stopped at her grave which was yet covered with fresh flowers and you made it even more beautiful by putting a few.

“Now whenever you want to meet your Dadi, you have to come to her garden”, I said. 

You looked at me quizzingly but didn’t say a word. We asked you to fold your hands and pray and you did.

That moment I felt her presence among us in that quiet cemetery. I’m sure she saw you from above and smiled and said- Whatever happens, happens for the best.

The sun was setting and we were getting ready to leave. As we neared the gate I could almost hear her say- Don’t go Samaira. But I promised her, that we will come soon, and come often.

RIP Mom. 

You may or may not have not been the best in the world, but you definitely took were the best in ‘our’ world.