A TIKTOK BARBIE SUMMER

I thought I hadn’t posted a thing since Christmas, but I have a couple of posts this year to redeem me. It gets  harder and harder to persist as long form creator when the young ‘uns are buzzing about us with TikTok reels, and YouTube shorts and everything is clipped and fleeting. My niece Bella made a first TikTok for me, and it’s fun, lively, catchy. My nephew Raf has an anime channel, and he checks the views and subscribers like a hawk. My nieces Eva and Ellie whip up comic series as an afterthought at breakfast, and the walls of Shaista land continue to be drawn and painted on, some done, some undone.

Yesterday at the infusion centre, I wore my ‘Je Suis Très Fatigué’ sweatshirt, and June (of the gold heels and immaculate fashion) advised me to never give up hope, keep the negative thoughts away, and surround myself with colour. Mostly I want to badger into the earth, and stay duvet-ed until… until when? It’s summer, and Barbie is in town.

What did I think of the movie? It was indeed berry pink, had a great soundtrack, Ryan Gosling and Kate McKinnon have fabulous comedic roles… but I stayed detached. Barbie and I were never particularly close - I preferred the softer touch of my grey worn teddy bear, my little cotton pillow, my dreams of authorship. There was something very hard and plastic about Barbie. A synthetic opacity. I did love America Ferrera’s speech about the expectations on women resulting in us never being or feeling enough. I love Greta Gerwig as writer and director… I liked being in the cinema with not only my niece, but also my brother and nephew (with him I discussed the film in great detail later that night on a doggy walk around the village). It’s ‘Both, And’ for me, to quote the extraordinary therapist, Esther Perel.

I am phenomenally tired after our family summertime together. Mentally and physically. And the beat goes on… What next? What lies undone? The desire to create, while knowing there are operations to come, an underlying infection that has not released its hold on me… and a birthday. I try to do something special, something memorable on my birthdays when there are few family and friends around… while knowing that staving off a hospital admission is really the focus of the next two weeks. Meanwhile, here's to watching the rain fall with best friends, through a looking glass... 

FROM TIGER TO RABBIT

Is the year roaring to an end for you? Will it begin with a whimper?

Or are these anthropomorphic ideas of the tiger and the rabbit? Water tiger turns to water rabbit in a day. Or, more accurately, on January 22nd. I will be travelling on that day. I think that bodes well? A return home from faraway adventures. Air borne. Lupus in flight. 

It is two thirty am. I am eating a slice of chocolate cake - fudgy, the kind I love. The house is silent. Luckily, Milo, the Tayabali Tamaruke, is asleep behind a closed bedroom door. Would he have barked if he'd seen me? Or padded comfortably down with his nocturnal mate? He has slept in my bed, on my bed, for many nights this holiday. 

Oh, did I mention I am in Singapore as I type? I remember my first blog post about the big travels I (and Mum and Dad) made in 2010, for my younger brother's wedding. And then again, to visit my year old nephew. Time hasn't flown. It has grown. We have become more of ourselves. Some parts of our lives are weightier. Some parts baffling. I cried tears of loneliness tonight, even though I am surrounded by those I love. The human heart is a mysterious thing. Hence art. Hence poetry. Of which I have written so little, I'm unsure if I still qualify as Poet.

Qualify. That word is my nemesis. What am I qualified for? I recall at my university interview, the Head of the English department asking me why I wanted to do English at university. What's the point? he asked. And he wasn't even challenging me. He seemed to be in need of answers himself. Which annoyed me. I flashed altruistic reasons at him. The purpose of literature, the transformational nature of accurate, good journalism. The need for truth in a world of propaganda and prejudice. The power of persuasion in devious, megalomaniacal hands. I remember the professor's name was John. My youthful nature must have amused him. But now, looking back, I see how one can become tired and worn down by repetition and indifference. 

What am I trying to say? Oh yes. Qualifications. Success. And the stunning necessity of art, beauty and goodness to live alongside and within, and without. I have been blessed all my life to be surrounded by art, in every home. My parents' art in homes around the world. My siblings creating artful homes, which I want to enjoy forever. My eyes have troubled me this trip. New surroundings take a while to adjust to. Once the sun sets, I falter. But a helping hand has almost always been near. Can you qualify as a successful human being if you always need help? Thich Nhat Hanh would say yes. That is interdependence. I will be travelling home on the day Thây passed into continuation. There is significance in that. Perhaps.

I hope your last day of the calendar year 2022 has some joy and peace interwoven. And that our collective unknown 2023 ... well, what can we wish for? More green on earth. More ease after darkness. For our better natures to prevail. And for those who suffer, to have the possibility of play. To play again, someday.

VERILY, WITH THE DAWN COMES HER BIRTHDAY

When we were little and Dad was teaching us the surahs, he encouraged my brothers and I to choose a favourite surah, one we could feel we personally belonged to. I chose Alam Nash Rah - not knowing anything about the dark nights that lay ahead nor the dawn that would bring ease. I just loved the musicality of the recitation, and the repetition of the line, 'Verily, with hardship, comes relief...'

ألم ناش راه لك 

و و دانا أنك وازرق 

... فى إن مال أسري يسرا 

إن مال أسري يسرا 

To this day I think of the surah as 'mine', not least because the pattern of my particular life has fallen into the poem of dark heartsore nights and gentler tender dawns.

Mum and I were supposed to travel to Vancouver for my cousin's wedding. Rizwan and Angelina were bringing the mice to keep Dad company. And then I started to spike fever. By the time I was recording 38.4 degrees I knew jumping on a plane was looking less than likely. For five days, the Infectious Diseases team treated me with IV antibiotics and, with no fever in sight, discharged me. A day later I was spiking fever again, and the day after someone from ID called to say the microbiologists had picked up campylobacter in my bloodstream, an oddity, and readmitted me through Accident and Emergency to the exact ward, the exact side room into which I was incarcerated in 2009 from February to June - the place that inspired my blog to become what it became, the place that forged the person I am today, whoever she may be. 

I was admitted the night of my birthday. Rizwan stayed with me until just past midnight to wish me and hand deliver the cards written by my twinnies, and later that night when Singapore awoke, I had a video from my other munchkins singing me happy birthday in English, Mandarin and Malay! Angelina baked me a three layer chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting and the girls decorated it with sprinkles... 

Meanwhile across the oceans I practised a little art of deception - we had all chivvied Mum to get on that plane alone. You can imagine her reluctance at leaving her daughter in hospital. While I was being readmitted, while the IV antibiotics were being fed through me, faraway on a hilltop in North Vancouver, a beautiful Parsi engagement ceremony was unfolding amid garlands of flowers, and pretty lanterns anointed my uncle's home. I'll just tell them tomorrow about the hospital thing, I thought, so long as they don't video call me!!

Time enough, time enough. Not always, but sometimes, there is time enough for everything we dream about, hope for, and even, are surprised by. Rizwan and Angelina bought me a beautiful salwaar kameez intended for the wedding, but when Angelina told me to wear it anyway in hospital, I did...

Irfan and Theresa sent me an eye mask with headphones cleverly attached so my photosensitive eyes are protected from glaucoma glare, and I can escape into Philip Pullman's world, into Georgette Heyer and Marian Keyes' worlds... 

I've had two PICC lines surgically inserted in a short space of time, so I feel tender and 'cloudy' to use Clive's description of me. We might be doing a poetry reading together late next month if needles and toes align. Until then, a cheery cloudy farewell from N2. Home soon, I hope...

AUNTY SHAI!

From far away, the call went up. 'To the hill! It's Aunty Shai!' Mind you, I am on the verge of becoming plain Shaista because my niece Eva is getting suspicious that 'Aunty Shai' is not necessarily my grown-up name…. she does not know that I am not necessarily Grown Up.

It's summer. The bees are out. Honeysuckle balms the air. And in Wandlebury, five siblings reunite in dappled English light…

CHRISTMAS FIRSTS

Do you remember when I wrote about my poems being worked into glass by a glassworks artist? The person who suggested my name was a poet herself, living and writing in Oxford - Dorothy sent me the poem below as a Christmas greeting. It's so lovely I know she won't mind me sharing it with all of you...

Rolling a snowball
Yukikorogashi

Utagawa Kuniteru (c.1830-70)

Snow rabbit

Why always snow men?

Why the A, the B, the C of snow?

Round the corner

someone is building an enormous rabbit,

funnelling its ears,

poking in twigs for whiskers,

and clearing a patch

of grass in front of its nose.       

Outside the King’s Arms

they’ve stacked up a snow giraffe,

and the lake in the park is full

of the dangerous whiteness of swans

beautifully sculpted on thin ice,

down to the last letter.

© Dorothy Mccarthy

Carl Larsson (1890-1919)

In Singapore, my brother and sister are witnessing the falling in love of a new generation with the old magic of Christmas… snow in Singapore!!

Elaborate mangers…

And Santa too, no doubt, bursting in with his reindeers to a soundtrack of Walt Disney's Fantasia… I shall be contented this Christmas Day, imagining Rafi's excitement, and eat my Christmas cookies, baked by a loving friend, with gusto…

A SWEET MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU, AND YOU AND YOU! 

SWING

The movement a golf player makes with his/her club to hit the ball. A golf swing is made up of a series of complex mechanical body movements. A perfect golf swing is regarded as the "holy grail" of the sport, and there are many approaches as to how to achieve "perfection" - Wikipedia

On a rainy day in September, the last of the summer colours bleach away. It has been quite a difficult summer and after many hospital admissions I am more than a trifle worn out. But this past week, one bright burst of energy appeared in the form of my younger brother. He spent the week infusing us with his usual brand of good humoured, careless love in between bouts of giving me golf lessons. He didn't entirely despise my first attempts so I am hopeful I shan't embarrass myself in front of The Nephew who no doubt, at 18 months, is already perfecting the art of swing.  

The Brother accompanied me to hospital a few days ago, ducking out only when the Needle Lady came by, all smiles and jokes. (The Needle Lady that is, not The Brother... she really was the chirpiest phlebotomist I have ever met! Unnerving, but nice!). And then, with a hug and admonitions to visit him soon, in his part of the world, he was gone. Tomorrow I have eye surgery - unless the surgeon decides against it... and today I am as dull as the grey stone sky. Recently, I watched choirmaster Gareth Malone gather together a disparate group of surgeons and therapists to create a perfect harmony - I found the programme fascinating. The thought that someday, in an alternate universe perhaps, I could be sung to by NHS staff, cheers me no end! NHS trust hospitals work "as a series of little villages" with very little communication, if any, between consultants and kitchen porters, so to witness the coming together of the complex combination of individuals that make up my own hospital experience, was a thrill. The full appreciation of the unique talents of all members of staff is something I learned from my father who was loved by medics and technicians from all departments. Humour, gentleness and a song on the lips of my surgeon - is that too much to ask for? 

"Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down... in the most delightful way!" 

Now that's my idea of 'swing'!

Travels of Earthworms

So there we were, having just eaten dim sum at the architecturally stupendous innovation of the new Marina Bay Sands, and just as little Rafi had fallen snugly asleep, the rain came. Buckets chucked down by gleeful gods, having an early New Year's Eve party. No time for umbrellas! How to get home? Singapore Metro tube and ordinary bus: nothing seems to faze Dr Tayabali, who is leaping about the place, taking strides the way he used to when we were children and he would playfully walk at twice our length pretending to get to the end of the lane faster than us so he could get to hospital before we got to school. But he always doubled back. Dad, you really are something. Causing quite a stir in Kuala Lumpur, with that white stick, which has been named Malcolm but is also sometimes called Michael... Dad can't quite decide...

I am of course in Aunty heaven with the little munchkin-pudding-scruffles who is unhappy about teething, but happy about ousting me from his bedroom. The King must have his own way whenever possible. It makes life rather more peaceful :)

Divided between my two brothers in Singapore and Malaysia, I have never felt so snugly balanced and centred. This is exactly where I am supposed to be. Nothing matters except for the sound of the bulbul in the morning, the fall of bougainvillia, gulmohar, even poinsettias festively decorate the houses, the taste of sugarcane juice, chicken rice, and strange fish at the hawker centre...

Who are you? I ask the self in the mirror and no response is forthcoming. I just fluff up my hair, do a sunny twirl and become one with the day. Writing up a business case for the next approval for my monoclonal antibody therapy is awaiting me, but I wave to it carelessly. I'll get to you, I say. Eventually.

We Cambridge earthworms barely ever leave the quiet dark corners of birch trees and cups of Yorkshire tea. But for now, Asia, you better watch out, you better not cry, better not pout, I'm telling you why, the Tayabalis have come to town, the Ta-ya-balis have come to town!