tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55792192395148901692024-03-08T19:59:27.361+05:30Outposts in your HeadIt is hard to find an enemy who has outposts in your head--- Sally KemptonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579219239514890169.post-76404606190833356572015-12-26T10:31:00.002+05:302020-08-19T19:06:57.750+05:30 LOVE IN A BOTTLE…<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He poured some in the glass and glugged. He obviously hadn’t
shaved in weeks. Probably hadn’t bathed either. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">What is it with men, moods and
chin hair? I wondered what women did when they were in a bit of a bother? Grew
their nails and ignored their laundry? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He hit me again. Harder this time. Staring at me with those
wide brooding eyes. Mean one this fellow. But there was a sorrow in those mean
eyes I hadn’t noticed. Like a lost dying star in a bright nebula. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The bartender shot him a dirty look. Sitting at the back all
these weeks, I’d noticed all the different types of drunks who walked into
Mikey’s Bar. There were mostly four types I realized – the mean ones, the
braggarts, the quiet ones and the singers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">This one though, he was different. Mikey didn’t know what to
make of this one. No one else did either. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He was like a wolf in a pack of dogs. Lone; lonely maybe. But not out hunting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He hit me again and again. Putting me down at last with a
harsh sound on the bar top. A hush descended. The door screeched open. Heels
clicked and a woman’s voice said, "Andhesh…. You have to come home, NOW."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He threw me against the wall and I broke into a million
pieces. I watched him leave, no silent goodbyes said, as the Vodka poured out
of my guts slowly…..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579219239514890169.post-44844263684780937252014-10-23T15:20:00.006+05:302020-10-26T08:27:52.897+05:30THE TROUBLE WITH TRIBBLES<div>Like every other middle class kid of the 60s and 70s, I was socialized and normalized at par for the time. There were some broad rules : Children were to be seen, not heard. Unfailing politeness, discipline and above all obedience, were the greatest virtues of a child. An obedient moron who routinely failed class, was preferable to a rebellious genius. With age, sons were allowed some liberties because they would soon be men and fathers themselves. Daughters were required to be maintained in situ condition - pure, virginal and foolish - till the next family took over their burden. </div><div><br /></div><div>But India is vast country with a ridiculously wide spectrum of cultures and priveleges. Within these broad parameters, experiences varied depending on the region or state you were born in, the caste one belonged to, the food we ate, the profession and status of our parents and the languages or even dialects you spoke. This was the age before the internet, when you couldn't get by merely through memes and Facebook likes or retweets. Conversations required real, audible sound. And the language you used, or <i>could use, </i>mattered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both my parents also came from conservative Rajput families. <i>Their </i>parents, my grandparents, had migrated south from the blighted state of Uttar Pradesh and settled in Hyderabad decades ago. But as everyone in India knows, you can leave the cow-belt, but the cow-belt never leaves you. My mother's side adopted the Hyderabadi cuisine but never the manners. In a few decades, my father's family followed the call of the wide, arid, sun-dried waterless plains of his homeland and returned to his village in UP. My father had joined the army though, in homage or rebellion, I never knew, to his father's lifelong job in the Nizam's army. So I was born in Bikaner and my childhood was spent shifting from one small watering hole to another that the Ole British Army had transferred to the Indian army. Once every year we returned to visit both grandparents in opposite sides of the country. </div><div><br /></div><div>So as a girl of the late 60s, being brought up in a Rajput parents' army family, in mostly small watering holes across the country, I had some typical characteristics. Army outposts had bad schools and worse teachers so I was ill educated but well turned out; I was mostly seen and never heard; I was unfailingly polite, obedient, respectful and disciplined, because there was no other option; But, much to my parents' great grief in later life, I was neither pure, virginal nor foolish. This interfered greatly with my normalization. </div><div><br /></div><div>After school, there wasn't much to do, even in pretty army cantonments, except to go for long hikes in the hills, learn to horse ride, shovel the snow, and hang out with other army brats my age. But multiplying bland and boring into ten, didn't make it more interesting. So, after I'd exhausted all other entertainment, I usually hopped over to the library. Army libraries tended to be manned by a jawan at the time, not a librarian. It was purely a security measure: make sure books are signed out, not stolen. '</div><div>With no overseer, at the age of 10, I began to read books I later realized were probably not meant for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>The first thing I lost was my purity. </div><div>I lost that when I lost religion. And I lost religion the moment I discovered books. That was my father's fault. I'm not sure to this day if he saw it coming or planned it that way. </div><div><br /></div><div>To briefly digress, my father hovers like an enigmatic figure in my life. He died in an accident when I was 16 years old. In my angrier moments, I think the bastard planned it that way: lived long enough to shape my early life, but disappeared just as I was entering my rough teenage years. It left my mother holding the can. And she just dropped it. I didn't blame her though, she hadn't been fitted for the job. But pops made me angry. Trust a man to disappear when the going gets tough. In my softer moments though, I'm deeply grateful to him. I look at other women my age and think - there but for the grace of pops, go I. </div><div><br /></div><div>He introduced me to two things that changed my life forever: sports and books. He was of course doing it because, well, we'd lost my brother to leukemia when I was six and he was three. Usually such a tragedy destroys a family. In a move inconceivable of a Rajput man of the time, he went and got <i>himself </i>sterilized. He told my mother he was convinced that if their next child was a son again after the death of a son, I the daughter would never get any attention. He wanted to make sure that didn't happen. </div><div><br /></div><div>What prompted my father to take such a drastic step, I have no idea. Actually, I have some idea, but nebulous childhood memories can be misleading. Either way, at the time my mother was just 26 and my father 32 years old. This would have been a tough decision for him and their relationship. From my perspective, their relationship apparently survived, but my mother and I were completely and forever alienated. I didn't know why of course till my 40s when she told me about my father's apparently unilateral decision so many years ago. If true, I shudder to think of how unkind it was to her. And yet how kind it was to me. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>They taught me two opposite sets of values that I would realize decades later, are incomplete, maybe even harmful, without each other. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If we were honestly greeting each other on religious festivals, this is what I have always imagined myself saying. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Dusshera. Let's burn Ravana, pretend he's the real man and invite our children to the burning party. They'll grow up to be fine citizens. </div><div><br /></div><div>Merry Christmas. Let's lie to our children about strangers in red suits who invade homes and grant wishes. That's a wonderful parental tradition worth preserving. Also, let's avoid talking about the crusades which were not religious wars. Spoiling the fun is not good manners. That's another parental gift to our children - good manners above everything else. </div><div> </div><div>Eid Mubarak. This one's newer and less sophisticated. So let's recall how the holy book is exactly the word of god and meant to be taken literally. And how wonderful the father who sliced open the throat of his own son for the love of god. Imagine what he could do to those who weren't his sons. While we do this, let's however hug each other on both shoulders and gorge on great food. At the moment, we're only sacrificing animals, not sons. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> <br />But as you grow out of normative socialization, it becomes harder not to think about things. Why did King Dashrath banish his eldest son to 14 years in exile, because of the whimsical wishes of a petulant wife?</div><div><br /></div><div>And how did this petulant woman's tantrum in a far off past (if the story's even true), become the raison de etre of one of the world's largest political party, the future of one seventh of the world's population, </div><div><br /></div><div>The official version is that Kaikeyi had saved Dashrath's life and he had granted her one boon in return. As K's own son Bharat came of age, she grew ambitious for him and saw a way to get rid of the rightful heir to the throne. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Was he afraid she would kill him? If so, why not kill her instead? She wasn't even first wife. In all contemporary mythologies and histories of the time, younger wives were easily dispensed with and it wasn't really a cultural taboo. In the Mahabaratha, another contemporaneous text, a wife was shared between four men. Within the logic of that time, Kaikeyi really shouldn't have had such a hold over King D. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>If it wasn't fear, was it hate? Did Dashrath the fair north Indian, hate Ram because he was dark skinned? North Indian dislike of dark skinned southies survives to this day. Was it great sex? Did D obey his queen and banish his eldest son for the oldest reason in the world - lust? </div><div>Whatever the real reason, it is hard to imagine that Prince Ram did not feel truculent and angry about this. </div><div><br />In which case, why did Prince Ram obey? One could argue, correctly, that whatever his reasons, King D owned the palace and Prince R had no choice. Either way, it seemed to me that the whole <br />Which would make Prince R a really angry man. <br />Why did his son obey? <br />Laxman chop off Surpanakha's nose if she was only in expressing her love of him? <br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579219239514890169.post-19704556765235599302014-02-14T08:08:00.001+05:302019-04-28T14:45:28.197+05:30I Hate (Young) Doctors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I hate doctors. Almost as much as I hate Sushi. They tell me
you can get used to Sushi in time. But in my 20 year long and unfortunately regular interaction with doctors, I haven’t learnt to stomach them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Believe me, it isn't for the lack of trying. When you're in the hospital as much as I've been - you <i>want</i> them to be on your side. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The list of litanies is long but my chief complaint is their
ignorance. </div>
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Ever met a neurologist with epilepsy? Or a psychiatrist with bipolar
disorder? Or a surgeon who’s had a hand and leg removed? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I haven’t. I'm sure there are some out there. (Gynaecologists who've had kids would qualify) But not many. So they can make the diagnosis, they can prescribe the
pills but do they know what it really <i>feels
</i>like? No sir.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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So it’s – “You have a stomach ache? Take a pain killer and
bugger off home.” Often followed by, “Your appendix ruptured after you got
home? Oops, sorry. I didn't know you had an appendix. Next!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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I started my career as a patient hating all the nurses. Especially
the mallu ones who giggled and chattered in a strange language while you lay
there moaning in pain. Besides, they just couldn't get the I-V going right. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A couple of years ago, back in hospital, I ran into a nurse who
couldn't get my glucose moving. She pressed the needle a little harder and
found that the liquid would flow only if it was twisted at some precise angle. She
left me sitting up, holding the needle at that angle for the next one hour. I
smiled indulgently. She was positively benign compared to the doctors I've had
the misfortune of knowing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later I came across another nurse who tried to shove a pipe down a stroke patient's throat so hard that blood spurted out of his nose like a fountain. Considering the fact that he had to go on blood thinners for the stroke and couldn't, simply because of her stupidity --- it was a life threatening mistake. That there were Duty Doctors all around her at the time just added insult to injury. </div>
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I can think of a few things I would have liked to shove down her throat. </div>
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I've developed a theory over time; over a very painful 20 year career as patient and patient-attendant, to be precise. Let me spare you the whole tedious
explanation on how I arrived at it and give it to you straight instead. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<li class="MsoNormal">Stay
away from old Bengali general physicians. They are verbose, tedious,
tendentious and believe that their pearls of blabber are better than pills
or tests or diet control. “Its oll
in the maind. You hab to hab <i>phaith</i> and <i>dethermination</i>” is what you are
likely to hear in the middle of your third heart attack. <o:p></o:p></li>
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You want to tell them is "<i>Phaith</i>
isn’t going to keep you alive after I slowly choke you to death." You <i> </i>don’t<i> </i>want <i>Phaith</i> when you feel like ten sumo
wrestlers are sitting on your chest. You want pills to make the pain go away.
And you want someone to turn the bloody world right-side up again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One such Bengali blabberer was almost
a homicide victim by a patient in a hospital in <st1:city w:st="on">Hyderabad</st1:city>. I refuse to name names. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal">Stay
away from any doctor under 40. In an emergency, say 35. The younger ones
don’t know jack-shit. They've surrendered useless appendages like hands and
ears and god forbid, their brains, to X-Rays and Ultra sounds and CT
scans. They don’t treat you, they treat THE REPORT. And may The Lord help
you if you <i>insist </i>you have more
pain than the report says you should. The old fashioned idea that doctors <i>touch</i> the area that is in pain or actually <i>listen to the patient </i> ---
they don’t do that any more. <o:p></o:p></li>
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And if forced to touch you, they’ll
quickly pull their hands back like you’re some kind of disease. They’ll leer
and snicker and patronize you till you feel like a worm. Besides, your mere
presence affronts them. You interfere with their mating ritual with other 20-something
duty doctors and nurses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3. As a general rule, if you’re a
hospital guest, prefer an older nurse to a younger doctor (Accept your senior
consultant who you hope is good). Just beware of nurses who smile too much.
They’re usually covering up for how inept or how new they really are. Any
nurse, who’s been around long enough to be trustworthy, has nothing to smile
about. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4. If you
have a medical emergency in the middle of the night -- say the pain has
suddenly shot up or you’re getting cold sweats, or seizures, or a stroke,
or dying -- don’t call the duty doctor. Ask for the head nurse. The DD
will inevitably be some youngling who caught the roster and will be more
lethal than the disease. Besides, he’ll be so sleepy, he can’t make out
your geezer from your face. The head nurse will be some over-40 matron
who’ll know what to do and when to wake up the senior doctor at home.</div>
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If, by some misfortune, the head
nurse is also younger than 40, start raising hell. Insist on calling their
senior doctor from home OR ELSE…Threaten to set fire to the hospital, ring the
fire alarm, call the cops….anything that works. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Now don’t say I didn't warn you. Heed the advice, else RIP. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Disclaimer: No junior doctors or nurses were hurt in the writing of this article. </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>Disclaimer 2: This writer of this article has nothing against Bengali doctors or Mallu nurses. Those are merely used representatively. It seeks to rail and rant against ALL doctors and nurses who don't take time to listen to the patient </i></div>
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<i>Disclaimer 3: There are some great doctors out there. Some the writer actually knows. This article does not rant against them. </i></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579219239514890169.post-16427585908173654902013-11-07T11:59:00.000+05:302019-04-28T14:41:23.364+05:30Fil's House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--OD1asOH-FQ/Unslafsa8XI/AAAAAAAAB54/ckflDVqitjY/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="371" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/--OD1asOH-FQ/Unslafsa8XI/AAAAAAAAB54/ckflDVqitjY/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Straight lines with rounded edges</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDvymjrLx3s/UnssfsMsikI/AAAAAAAAB84/0tlCyi80uIY/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDvymjrLx3s/UnssfsMsikI/AAAAAAAAB84/0tlCyi80uIY/s640/6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The study with long windows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5KMLSMLL-pU/UnssgKfF_-I/AAAAAAAAB9I/bPv0LLlGVCk/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5KMLSMLL-pU/UnssgKfF_-I/AAAAAAAAB9I/bPv0LLlGVCk/s640/9.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never Never Land</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pM7j1H1TzGc/Unspxz8cKNI/AAAAAAAAB8g/JDeiePt269E/s1600/12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pM7j1H1TzGc/Unspxz8cKNI/AAAAAAAAB8g/JDeiePt269E/s640/12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For my son and Max the dog</td></tr>
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<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/102208607882811862058/albums/5915747840155504417" target="_blank">For more</a></span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5579219239514890169.post-27359039168018714702013-11-05T17:29:00.000+05:302019-04-28T14:44:44.940+05:30A House for Fil<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It began as a
house we decided to build because the landlord doubled the rent. We couldn’t
afford one in the city so we went to the suburbs. Strictly speaking, we went to
the boon dogs. Beyond a village on the outskirts, where an adventurous realtor
decided to set up a gated community.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He’d set up the
tarred roads. Divided the plots. Put up the street lights and parks. Except
there was no gate and no community. By the time I finished building the house 5
years later, the gated community was acres of empty green space and for someone
like me, the best of all things--- a neighbor-free haven. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It was also a
whole bunch of other things I hadn’t thought it would end up being. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">The house began
as an idea for a small space - 800 square feet no more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Two rooms – one
for me and my husband and one for my daughter; a library where my son would
sleep behind the partition; and a long living-cum dining where we would spend
most of our time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">By the time I
finished building, the 3400 square feet
giant it is today, it was a book of many chapters. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">To my husband
it was a dream house, or so he said. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">To my 18 year old daughter, it is never-never
land, where she can pretend that Peter Pan and Tinker Bell still exist. To my
son- it is finally, home. A place where he gets to keep the awfully lizard-like
dachshund Max, that he so loves. Where he can call his friends. An identity. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">To me, it’s a
labor of love. Something I built. Solid and lasting and tangible. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">But more than
anything else, to me it is, and always will be, the house I built for Fil.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">L</span><span style="font-size: large;">ittle Dreams</span></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t
supposed to be that way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">My husband
worked nights. For years we’d had separate rooms so
he could live in a darkened tomb during the day. I called myself the call-center widow. It was only half a joke. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">We’d decided
that by the time we shifted to this house, he would get a day job or quit and
we’d start a small business or social venture together. It didn't matter what. Hence the two bedroom house, with a single
room for us. The small house with a large garden. Our home. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">But plans have
a way of changing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">As I began to
design the house my husband’s dreams grew bigger. He wanted to make space for
my mother to move in with us when she grew old. The idea gave me the jitters.
We weren't, what you would call, the ideal mother-daughter pairing. But I was
her only daughter and there are things you do for your parents no matter what. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">And then he
wanted Fil to move in with us. That idea I loved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He was my
husband’s best friend. (Not necessarily the other way around). Knew him since
childhood. Saw him through all the way from diapers to dentures. Grew old with
him. Truth be told, watched my husband grow old, even as his own spirit stayed young. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">And somehow,
the house began to build itself around that idea. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">One day Fil
hurt the bottom of his sole jumping down from a chair . Though a why a man his
age should have been jumping off chairs beats the hell out of me. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Well, actually,
I know, why. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">His wife asked
him to take a suitcase out of a loft (he’d do anything for her) – and he
thought he was Superman while jumping down from the chair ( he <i>always</i> thought
that he was superman). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Either way, his
sole hit the sharp tile skirting on the edge of the floor and gave him a big
bleeding gash. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided that
day, I would have no tile skirting in the house that jutted out from the walls.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">That turned to
no sharp edges at all anywhere. Nothing that would hurt him, as that half-blind-as-a-bat stubborn bugaboo roamed around in the middle of the night doing
god knows what. Because he always thought he was Superman. </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">Fil’s little ways</span></h3>
<div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I knew Fil
would only come to this house kicking and screaming. He loved his independence too
much. But eventually, come he would. He loved us too much. Especially the kids. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I
could imagine him sneaking in through the back door at all times of the night, so he didn't disturb anyone. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">So I built an exit from as many rooms as I could. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">I could imagine
him reading the paper for hours in the garden. So I built multiple shaded
spaces for him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">A table in the
study where he could potter around on a laptop on his current favorite project (and
he <i>always </i>had one) – would thrill him
endlessly. So I made space along the study window for two tables. And a sofa
for when he got tired. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I could imagine
the cups of (almost) sugar-less coffee he would get me to sneak from his wife. He loved
to watch me make coffee for him. Stirring the powder with a little bit of water
till it got the kind of froth and texture you got from old school coffee
machines. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">He was an athlete in his time and enormously kicked with both my
kids’ athletic achievements. I could Imagine him getting up in the morning or
late at night to take my kids for a run. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I could see him walking down to the
village to get involved in the local politics and road-building. Long teas with
the local sarpanch that he would then boast about for hours. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I could imagine
so many things. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The Fil no one knew</span></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Most of all, I
could imagine Fil unfettered and irresponsibly happy. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I <i>needed</i> him to be
irresponsibly happy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He’d been
accused of being irresponsible all his life of course. But I have never seen a
man carry such a great burden with such dignity all my life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Fil’s father, a
man of great education and a big-name family, married an uneducated no-name
woman on his parents’ say-so and promptly dumped her when their two kids were
barely 10-12 years old. He never gave
them a penny and never looked back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">This was to define
Fil for the rest of his life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Fil’s mother
was a no good illiterate. Barely a mother at all. His brother ran away because
he couldn’t take the stress and was found 40 years later on a railway station by
accident, a barely educated Class IV employee<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">Fil’s childhood
was spent taking care of his mother and shuttling between relatives, begging
for a place to stay. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Relatives who harbored them, didn't often feed them
properly. Those who fed them, didn't want to pay for his education. He begged
and borrowed and scraped his way through school. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> With the help of one kindly uncle, he finally
made it through to a boarding school on a scholarship. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Every summer,
when all the kids went home, Fil stayed back in the hostel because he had
nowhere else to go. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Acres of land. Hundreds of rooms. One little boy all
alone, 24 hours a day for 30 days with
celibate fathers. There are things Fil never talked about. Not even to his
family. Some things he let slip once when he was lying on a hospital bed very
ill. About older boys who made him do things that made him uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Rest of the
time, he made up games to amuse himself. Summer after summer. Hour after hour. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He
never told anyone the stories he had hidden in himself, because some stories
can’t be told. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">And most people don’t have the stomach for such stories.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">It’s
easier to turn away. To believe they are exaggerated because frankly, they
force us to get involved, to feel the pain. And it’s too much to bear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">We hate
the people who force such stories on us so Fil never told his.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">But he dealt
with them like only a couple of people I know, and came out a better man. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">The hand the dealer dealt </span></span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">When Fil got
married, he decided the one thing he would never do, was hurt his wife. No
matter what. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">It was perhaps an unconscious childhood decision. As an adult, he made it
his anthem.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">His mother had
been abandoned by a no-good husband, it wouldn't happen in his life ever again.
He put everything above that, including his children. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He had grow up alone. Not even a mother worth the name. This gave him a desperate <i>need</i> for a family. So when his wife came
along with a large family, he adopted them too. No questions asked. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He had put
himself through university, got married,
eventually got a job that was making some money. He funded his wife’s
brothers through college. And later, through periodic financial trouble, sometimes
behind his wife’s back. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Every once in a while, everyone gushed
over what a great man he was. Treated him with a certain deference.
Called on him regularly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">What no one ever
got was that he wasn't being a saint, as his wife often called him. Or a giver.
Or even a nice guy. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Fil was being Fil. He <i>liked
</i> the idea of being part of a family.
He was really just trying to belong.<i> </i> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">What he got in return was thanks and respect. No
matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find a family member he could go out for
a drink or chat with, brother-to-brother. No one he could call and say, “hey,
want to catch a cup of coffee?” </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">For all the respect and affection he got, he always remained
an outsider. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif;">Fil had been
dealt a dummy hand by life. But he’d decided to play a man’s game. His father
abandoned his wife; so he would put <i>his</i> wife above everything else. His family had ill-treated
him; so he would be the best family man he knew how. He’d suffered at the hands
of ungenerous people; he would be as generous with his money as he could
possibly afford, often even when he couldn't afford. He’d suffered indignities
but had learned to survive them; so, above all, he would fight for life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">What is it they say about good and decent men --- "It's not what happens to you, but what you do with what happens to you...."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">“We are fighters,” he said to me at one of our difficult
moments. It was his favorite line.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;">From out of the Shadows</span></span></h3>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">I wanted
to build a house for Fil where he didn't</span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> have to fight anymore. Where I could get
him his frothy coffee. Listen to his painfully long lectures. And bloody hell,
if he could get up and take my kids for a run, maybe I’d take a shot at it too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He’d been
reviled for everything he was, all his life. Respected when it suited people
and reviled when it didn’t. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">But most of all, this man who took care of everyone and their families was the loneliest most abandoned person I knew. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">Fil. Poor, sweet, stupid, lovely, deep, Fil.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">The braver
he was, the more they asked of him. After all, if a man can do this much, why
not a little more?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">If a man can
walk up the apartment steps, why the hell can’t he get in the door? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s a fair
question. The proverbial last straw? No one ever thought of it with regard to him. If he acted like Superman, he must be one. Right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Fil shrugged off many last straws and taught himself to walk again. Had his back broken many times and
put himself back together, all by himself. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">The last time he fell ill, he sought out an
old business rival to get back his sense of life. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">There is no emotional gain in helping a strong man, so he helped himself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">But the woman
who refuses to climb up the apartment steps to begin with? Speaks the loudest
about her pains and her illnesses- there’s often an army of volunteers rushing
to get her a wheelchair. We all feel a soft glow of goodliness when we help the
weak. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">For Fil, that
was okay. He’d been happy to live in the shadow of his wife and kids all his
life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I hoped to
build him a place where he could come out of the shadows. Throw his weight
around a bit. <i>Demand</i> something for
once. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="color: #444444; font-size: large;">Never Never Land</span></span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">The house <i>did</i>
get built. We moved in. My husband never changed his job. We never got back
into the same bedrooms. He built himself another tomb upstairs and eventually
moved out a few months ago. We’re filing for divorce.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It <i>is</i> Never-Never land for my daughter. But
now she imagines it’s a world where we’re all living together and things are
just dandy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">For my son, it
is home because he has Max the dog and Ravi the cook. That's his idea of a home these days. But he is terrified of everyone just
leaving one by one. Especially after my daughter did her adolescent run-away
act like her grand uncle before her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">As for Fil, he
came home a few days ago. We had coffee and went for a drive to drop my
daughter off at the airport. My husband had been discussing divorce terms with
him and something had startled him into taking an education insurance policy
out on the kids. He wanted to talk about it, but we didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">It was a stolen
moment for both of us. Old friends forbidden to meet. I spoke to him about the
house that was meant for him. “You know that’s not going to happen” he said. “But you know I'll always love you. Let’s meet for coffee at least whenever you come to town. Just give
me a call.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday, any
possibility of coffee in town, also passed away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">You see, Fil
is, was, my Father in Law. His name is Boddapati Purnayya. They say he died of liver failure on November 4, 2013. </span></span><span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">I think he also died of a tired heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">He was just waiting for his wife to return from her holiday in the US, so he could finally let go. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">If family is someone you don't have to explain yourself to, no matter what you do; if family is someone who indulges all your whims and pet peeves no matter how painful or funny and bizarre, because they are important to you; if family is someone who knows what you want and who you are, without a word said aloud; then he was the only family I had. I hope I was his. </span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">In a world, where very few men are men, he is the best man I knew. I didn't get to say goodbye. But that's okay. He knew I loved him, as he loved me. </span><br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">Before we have coffee one day...</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t know
what this is. An obituary for a man who told all the funny stories and kept the
others to himself. The obituary for a house. Or a dream.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe it’s just
my need to tell a little bit of the story of a man, in death, who never said
much for himself in life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">I will be
moving out of Fil's place by the end of the month. It’s built with a great deal
of love for a man anyone would have been privileged to know. If anyone wants it,
it’s yours for the asking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">As for you Uncle, wherever you are –I know you hedged your bets on the question of god just
to be on the safe side. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;">If your god does
indeed exist, do me a favor before you sit down to tell him a funny story. Give
the bastard a hard one from me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "serif";"><span style="font-size: large;">You deserved better Down Here. You tell him to
make it up to you, Up There. Or he will answer to me when I arrive. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://plus.google.com/photos/+SaritaRani/albums/5915747840155504417" target="_blank">FIL'S House</a></div>
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