The beats of the drum

As I spoke to my friends’ sister-in-law, I could hear the beats of a tabla ( a percussion instrument) being played in the background. It evoked strong memories of my mother, who used to play at numerous social gatherings, dinner parties, weddings and Mehndi nights. “Oh, Mrs ——! Why don’t you play?”  “Please Mrs —–, sing for us! Play the tabla!” The women would plead, implore and encourage mum by placing a spoon in her hand and pressing her clenched hand onto the table.  Mum would react with some reluctance at first, displaying modesty and humility. But the beats of the drum would easily sway mum to become absorbed in the sound of the music. Meditative, delightful and passionate. Sometimes, you would hear laughter. Other times, tears. But overall, a joyous occasion shared by women.

Dad didn’t quite have the same “musicality” as mum . He did however, have a strong sense of verse and poetry. He would be sitting in another room, surrounded by men, his peers, long term friends and new acquaintances.   His reputation surpassed his knowledge. People would invite him to recite poetry, “ghazals” and verse, write articles, poems and provide awards, receive rewards of recognition and accomplishments. His words, strong and emotive, would reverberate around the room, halls and amongst the crowds. The tone of his voice resonated, the audience murmuring assent, applauding the sound of words, spoken with aplomb.

However, I chose to ignore, didn’t understand…

But now I cry, soft tears roll down my cheeks, memories strong for the love of my parents I long…

 

The Smiling Ghost

 

That night you slept like a ghost

suffering deep in the shadows

falling from clear glass skies

diving into memories of the 80’s

picking up images of hope

Then leaving with nothing but a smile

A candle flickers no more

A poem created in memory of Sandra.

A candle that flickers in a darkened room

Alone sits a woman shrouded in gloom

A friend I treasured, a woman of strength

that fell from her heart with tragic events

A lost husband

A daughter in youth

A sister in health

that went in her sleep

A fall out I had and never reclaimed

A woman of substance

that drained from her soul

She’s gone to the  Heavens

A sign from above

She’ll meet all her Loved Ones

united in Death

A smouldering candle

flickers no more.

The Learned Kat

The sad loss of friendships and more

 

It has been a strange week. No, not quite strange, but more the fact that a sense of melancholy has once again made its presence known in our house hold.

Only last week, my partner and I were talking about how different our lives were when we lived for several years in Torquay. We soon got onto the subject of work and a particular person was mentioned. This brought up memories that we had almost forgotten…One of my former work colleagues, MK, whom we got to know a little better through several social events. He was appeared to be pleasant and friendly and we got on well. Or so I thought…until that fateful day when we promised him a plant pot, informing him that we were about to leave our house for several hours and we’d leave the pot outside for him to collect. He said that was fine and he wouldn’t be long in coming round to fetch it. Little did we know that within a few minutes of leaving it outside, it would get stolen!!  Much to the chagrin of MK who said that he promised to give it to his sister. I tried to explain and placate his annoyance but he refused to speak to me after that incident. Although we worked together, the tension was slightly unbearable. I didn’t wish him any harm, didn’t hold any bitterness or grudges against him. After all, it was a misunderstanding and an incident that wasn’t worth dredging up… But MK chose to ignore me and eventually our “friendship” soon petered out as quickly as it had first started…

 

I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since…Last Monday, I read a Facebook status. It made a reference to a certain individual. I made enquiries as to whom it could be referring to and was informed that it was MK. He had only passed away 4 years ago. A man in his mid fifties, he’d only gone into hospital for a minor bowel operation, ended up in ICU, fell into a coma and died. I was saddened, shocked and sorry that a potentially fruitful friendship had come to such an abrupt end without any resolution. Our friendship and his life cut short like a piece of string which had unravelled in all the wrong places.

 

 

Today has also been blighted by the tragic death of someone who also chose to end our  friendship. She was supported by many people over the years, was a very private and respected person when I met her. She was petite, blonde, carried the air and grace of someone from a different era. She was very polite, tactful and a sensitive individual. Once in a while she would admit to “not being a very good mother”, but it was clear that her lesbian daughter and gay son loved her dearly. She had led a sad life. Her husband and mother in law had passed away in terrible circumstances. They were driving in a torrential thunderstorm when a tree, already on the verge of collapsing, crashed on top of their car. The legal papers said their death was due to the negligence of the Council.  The total amount of compensation was enough to allow our friend to spend money in the amusement arcades for a number of years. And that’s all she did…spent all the money on her addiction and a bottle of brandy a day. Oh, I hardly ever eat, she would say. I’m quite happy with my cigarettes and coffee. I only gamble to socialise, you know and it gets me out the house. Her gambling addiction took her away from her family and friends. When she moved several years ago in an attempt to be cared for and looked after by her slightly younger sister, it was her sister who had a sudden illness and passed away. Then, our friend returned to Birmingham. She had lost her home, her finances were rapidly dwindling and she was losing many of her long term friends who had stood by her in an effort to keep her “otherwise engaged” so that she didn’t spend all day, every day in the gambling arcade. And if it wasn’t the arcade, it was Bingo or online poker games.

 

Our friend, because of her age, bought herself a small flat in a block of retirement apartments. She was monitored and cared for on a regular basis by the Housing Officer or Scheme Manager.

Then, in a bizarre twist of fate, in the week leading up to Christmas 2012, her daughter had also been killed in a car crash. Another tragic loss which was revealed to us by text.

Our friend, who I used to think was as secretive as a squirrel, was so eloquent, informative, educated, and yes, quite glamorous in her own way, passed away in her sleep last Monday night. She was found dead on the sofa by a Nurse. Towards the end of her life, we could see that her body was shrivelling away through lack of nourishments, proper home cooked food and her reliance on brandy. We could see she was truly a gambling addict in denial, who was on the course of self destruction, moving away from people who loved and cared for her and falling deeply into debt and oblivion.  As she lacked strength in her body, she had to walk using a Zimmer/Walking frame which didn’t stop her from going into the gambling or Bingo halls. There wasn’t any signs of self preservation or the Will Power to keep out, her addiction was so great…  We think she was in her early sixties. No one is quite sure of her age, but whatever age she is, sorry was, or whatever she did, she would be missed and a piece of my heart feels the sad loss of a quirky, contrary, addictive personality.

 

I hope you have been reunited with your family and found true happiness at last. RIP Sandra xx

The Learned Kat

Crying because I’m chopping onions

 

I’m not weeping because

I miss you

I’m crying because I’m

chopping onions

I’m not lonely because

you’re not here

I’m cooking the dishes

you used to prepare

I’m not nostalgic with

memories of you

I’m trying to recall all

your recipes

I’m not wondering about what

you would say

I’m pondering on how it would taste

 

I’m not sorry

you left me

I rue the day

you went

I’m not looking for comfort in

your dishes

I’m trying to recapture

your essence

I’m not searching for

your happy look

I should place your recipes

in a book.

 

I wrote this poem whilst cooking a curry which was taught to me by my mother. She passed away three years ago. I find cooking or baking, therapeutic, a distraction. There IS comfort in food which is prepared and cooked with the extra ingredients of warmth, love, and happiness. I’m not saying it lessens the burden of bereavement, but it does help me to ease the pain.

The Learned Kat

 

 

 

Sleep

Sleep sings to me

as the day draws to an end

dreams call to me as I weep

memories that bring joy to me shatter

as voices tread on my soul as I sleep

 

The Learned Kat

My Verdigris Chair is like an Old Maid

The Verdigris Chair sits in the room

Like an Old Maid, waiting for her groom

It has been loved and cared for

Through the years and many doors

It sometimes brings happiness

Other times, a little loneliness

The Verdigris Chair is a throne.

The Verdigris Chair has expectations

Like an Old Maid, in desperation

It has brought warmth and solidarity

Like a dame, a big part of the family

Through the tears and many floors

It sometimes brings  memories

Other times, a  handful o’ histories

The Verdigris Chair is alone.

The Learned Kat

The Best Gift is this White Chocolate & Lemon curd cake

The best gift is one that is made by hand, with love, affection and attention. It doesn’t have to be perfect or made by the professional hands of an expert. It just has to appeal to the five senses…and I know that the best gift for me was the handmade, home baked white chocolate and lemon curd cake which my partner baked for me on my recently celebrated 43rd birthday. It was simple, tasted delicious and ticked all the right boxes.

It was the best gift I could wish for…

The Learned Kat

MOTHER’S DAY

I would normally spend the day with my mother, but since she is no longer with us, I decided to bake a Victoria sponge cake and share it with a close female friend, a mother of two grown-up children. We enjoyed it with a nice cup of tea, after her home cooked Sunday roast.

I also wrote this poem:

Mother’s Day is here

bringing good cheer

and the memories of Lost Ones live on…

Some mothers are near

and others are far

Devotion and care they are always there

so cherish them, my dears

and be thankful for having your mum

So, embrace mums, not just today, but everyday

Men – even the wife!

Be Thankful for the mum in your life.

Happy Mother’s Day xx

The Ultimate Best Gift? A Mother’s Love

The Learned Kat

The Tiger’s Wife by Tea Obrecht

This book was recommended by my local book club, the Bearwood Bookworms. I wasn’t too sure about the choice made as we’d only finished reading The Leopard (Giuseppe Tomasi de Lampedusa) and someone had mentioned The White Tiger (Aravind Adiga).

There seemed to have been a big cat/feline theme going on…

I requested a copy from my local library and when I got home, I started to read it:

A young female doctor goes in search of her late grandfathers’ last resting place and his personal belongings. She describes her relationship with her grandfather, who was also a doctor, and the associated memories of him. This is interspersed with him telling her stories of his youth and his subsequent meetings with “the deathless man”.

The tiger of the novel is a relatively tamed species, which is kept in a zoo that the young doctor frequently visited with her granddad. manages to escape from a bombed zoo and in its attempt for survival, prowls the land in search of food and shelter. It is in one village that the tiger is seen, and “hunters” are dispatched to kill it. Unbeknownst to the local villagers, a deaf-mute woman, who also happens to be an “Outsider” finds a way to feed and care for the tiger. This leads to speculation, alienation and fabrication.

The story is interwoven with characters from different eras, but at the same time, the themes of desperation, survival, dying/death, fear and quality of life remains. There is uncertainty, trying to draw out fact from fiction, the question of cultural identity and the role of compassion and humanity in times of destruction.

I wouldn’t say he was a central character, but because he appears several times as a “constant”  throughout the novel, the “deathless man” has to have a mention as a very clever literary device. To me, the deathless man is symbolic of what the old doctor had known for most of his life: death which is known and unknown. For most of his young life, the doctor had either seen, heard or witnessed death. It was his experiences that drew him to try and help people and keep them alive. But it was also his knowledge of observing the signs and symptoms of death,  dying and the search for salvation that seemed to allow him to have pleasant conversations with the deathless man. Having the figure of the deathless man in the stories seemed to make the doctor, although sceptical and angry at the initial meeting, begin to develop  a relationship of some sorts over the years. Sporadic meetings allowed the doctor to question why the deathless man would come to him and what he gained from his visits. I think the deathless man represented the doctors own conscience, as he would look around during the war years and would question the futility of it all. It was at these times that the deathless man would appear and they would either argue or wrestle with what may be the consciousness.

The deathless man offers hope and preparation, not fear and uncertainty. He is a quietly strong, confident and practical being. In his own way, like the doctor, he offers salvation, resolution and peace. Maybe because the doctor has seen so much death in his time, that is why he would not accept it in a “lifeform!” It makes it more tangible and “real”. It is there, waiting and ready for everyone no matter what the circumstances.

Relationships are explored, either superficial or deep, loss and love are prominent in the telling of the search for the grandfather. Friendship, support and understanding are also key issues which Tea Obrecht explores with passion and instinct.

Having won the Orange Prize for Fiction 2011, I can now fully understand and appreciate why. The author draws you into a story within a story. Descriptive, seamless and enchanting, Obrecht relates the horrors of modern day wars with the wars of yesteryear. It was similar to The Book Thief ( Markus Zusak) and The Diary of Anne Frank but told through the style of The Arabian Nights. Full of sadness, melancholia, dark humour and shocking endings for some of the characters, it combined fables and folklore within communities bombarded by war, death, segregation, religion, superstition, fear and possibly ignorance.

My initial uncertainty was unfounded. It was an engrossing, page turner and at the end, I was overcome with the desire or wish to see this novel turned into a film. Every bookshelf ought to have a copy.

The Learned Kat

 

February is the month that can be Friend or Foe

Phew! A big sigh of relief…

I’m glad to see that February is now officially over. Not only is it a depressing month weather-wise, but it’s mentally draining for me too. I mean, it didn’t use to bother me, weather, but over the last 5 years, February has become a time to dwell on death, dying and remembrance.

As I said in a previous post, my father passed away in February 2008. He was 79.

But what I didn’t mention that my beloved mum passed away two years later on Friday 5 February at the age of 71.  I know the medical reasons for her passing but I like to think that she died of a broken heart. I know it’s difficult to imagine or live your life without your loved one. My parents were together for 54 years. Like most relationships, theirs was an emotional rollercoaster, with all of life’s ups and downs, highs and lows.

When dad passed away, I know my mum would pine for him in her own way and say that, however he appeared to others, good or bad, he was her life, husband and soulmate. She didn’t know any other. She had no wish or desire to. Mum was very young when they married. Dad was 10 years older…She didn’t want a life on her own. She didn’t want to be left alone. My Mum used to say that she dreamed about him every night, could hear his voice calling or could feel his presence in her room. When she didn’t receive any of those signs or feelings, she used to get upset or disheartened and ask why or what have I done to deserve this? Why had he deserted her? But there were other times when she would say that she spoke to dad in her thoughts at night, or pray to him and hope he would answer her prayers. She would pray that he would come and take her away. She would say that she was waiting for him or she would soon join him and looked forward to that day when they would be together again…

The days when my parents were alive spin around in my head, and it’s hard to shake off…I have my memories and they can either put me at ease or trigger off tears…

I dread the month of February now. Maybe ‘dread’ is too strong a word but I don’t feel so much ‘alive’ or ‘passionate’ about it as much as I used to. Maybe I’m just full of anxiety. I used to look forward to it because it used to mean Valentine’s Day was here (I know it’s overtly commercial and a monetary issue) and it was a month away from my birthday.

So, one of the days at the beginning of February is an anniversary, mid-February is a “pretend all is good and well in my life’ day, with me sharing cards and a meal with my partner and trying to make it a good a day as possible, and then I have noticed or become more aware that I tend to drop into a slight depression or develop morbid thoughts when considering that another anniversary is due at the end of the month. Not only that, but with my birthday approaching, another celebration that I used to enjoy very much, which I know is a sign that I am getting older although I still feel young, it makes me very much aware that I am spending more years away from my parents when they were alive and losing sight of how things used to be.

Every year, since my parents passed away, I say I will try and fix it, try and change or reimagine my life or daily ritual in a different way. But every year, without fail, no matter what I say or do, February remains  the month of strong emotions, significant life events or the month I lost my parents. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing will bring them back. All I know is that my life HAS to go on and I shall cherish and remember my parents forever.

Death comes to everyone. We know that. But the life we lead, the moments we share with loved ones, store them and hold them, make the most of the days you have with your parents. As they grow older, they might become sick, frail, infirm, argumentative, or if they are of another age or generation, you might clash over issues like teenage rebellion, parenting, diets, job or college choices…I’ve heard some people say  I wish my parents were dead or out of my life or my mum/dad is a bitch/bastard/ evil etc. I look at them and think, you wish them gone, and if you knew what destruction it brings, the dischord within siblings or family life, the major feelings of loss and disorientation, the constant “what if’s and If only…”, the scenes played over and over again over the years, images and flashbacks, triggers and stimuli that wash over you for no apparent reason, the yearning and comfort required, the “I wished I paid more attention to mum’s recipe or wish I’d written that recipe down or I should’ve gone with dad to New York or India or to that party…”. The regrets, the pain and the heartache is unbearable and sometimes without justification.

Grief and bereavement knows no bounds.

I would do anything to have my parents back. I would want them back, tell them that I loved them everyday and pay more attention to what they said  to me.

I miss my parents and even now, as I type, dislike/despise/hate the month of February  for being the month which took my parents away.

 

The Learned Kat