happy anniversary from your miracle baby.
Today is my parents 34th wedding anniversary and yet, our whole family is spread across the world. A time ago, we would have been piled on my parents bed, laughing at an American phrase my mom picked up from my brother, but of course butchered in her Indian accent. My sister would have been massaging my father's head, (she is the world's best at scalp massages), my mom would have her Bhagavad Gita in her hand, since most likely we all jumped onto their bed interrupting her nightly spiritual reads, (she always happily accepted and anticipated those moments of course), and I would put my head right on her chest to listen to her heart beat, my favorite. It feels good remembering that on this day, where I celebrate their love.
I tried to FaceTime with my father yesterday to tell him all this, but the connection was bad so will try again. Yesterday was one of those awareness days, too. There are so many it's hard to keep up with them all, but when I saw all the hashtags on Facebook for this one, it caught my eye.
It was world premature birth awareness day. And I thought, wow, so much has changed.
33 years ago, on a cold NYC mid-December day, my mother gave birth to me. 2 months early.
Then the less than 2 lbs. of my early existence was rushed to special hospital for special treatment. And my new to this country mother, and my young father both prayed.
I imagine what it was like back then, before the fancy NICU rooms of parent interaction and promising technology and before people made a big deal about bringing awareness to babies who had to fight for their life.
I imagine what my mother felt, giving birth to me without her mother or sister by her side.
I can imagine all this now because for me, it was quite different. I had my sister in the room with me when I gave birth, I played spiritual music and had my yoga mat. My sister massaged my back as I bathed through contractions, my husband held my hand when I started crying, my daughter was healthy.
I am a mother, a parent now, and so I can viscerally feel the truth behind their words of nightly prayer with their best friends, as they all stared into the plexiglass window at my little body, chanting for the vibration that they created to try to heal me, lift me, strengthen me.
So when my parents called my grandfather in India on the phone, my mother's guiding light, he said to name me Puja.
That is what I became then, their little prayer, the one that beat the odds, whose lungs grew strong without any issues, the girl who ended up being tallest in her class and who could run the fastest on field day.
Their words of joint love that I celebrate today, they lifted me, strengthened me. Their little miracle baby.
I remember this one moment so clearly, as a child, overhearing a story of a baby being born earlier than his due date. Like me…but not making it. He was born too early, they said. And right then and there, I closed my eyes, held my little palms together and whispered, thank you for this chance.
to the universe, for my father.
You may remember it as clear as I do. I'm in my room again, circa 1996. I have my headphones on and my new Walkman blasts In Bloom by Nirvana. It's a Saturday morning that I don't have to go help my parents in the office. I can feel the music in my veins and I don't know it then, but I'm an empath like daddy so music enters my body with conviction. My window's slightly open and I see the magazine collage on my wall and hear the gardeners mowing the lawn. I can smell spring. Life feels still in that moment.
It was a happy year. Things were good for my parents, we had moved to a new home, mom went back to work and had her own office. Daddy sang old movie songs in our kitchen and made homemade sauces, he had life in his eyes.
The first time I asked daddy where his sparkle went was when I was a sophomore in college. We were in line at the grocery store and I looked straight at him and asked him. He told me everything was fine. But I knew something was up.
2001. Sh*^ really hit the fan that year. My parents seemed stressed at work, (even though daddy never showed it to us), my younger sister was in high school and rebeling. Nothing serious, she was never a party girl, but things like blue hair and a Jewish boy who liked her were amongst the mix for my shocked Indian parents. But that was all stuff we could have handled.
It was the Ahmedabad earthquake that really got us. That swallowed mommy's smiles and daddy's faith.
My grandparents went to India with my mom to visit their motherland after a decade of being in the States with us. Before they left, I had secretly talked to my dada about helping mom and dad with office management and numbers since he was a math genius. He told me I should concentrate on studying, don't worry about it and things were fine. I will promise to help when we are back, ok beta?
For many years of my grieving after that, I had always thought you may have taken dada away from us, because I had asked that.
I was young, but felt that there was a something greater working and if dada had helped, something would have shifted fate. And so you roared as the force of a city's rumbles killed my strong, brilliant dada.
I'll never in my life forget what it felt like watching my mommy and nani walk from baggage claim to our car without him. I'll never forget how much my own father cried. Dada was like a father to him too, you know.
I'm not sure from then to now, how things got to where they are now.
Sometimes it seems like a blur. Like I can still hear daddy, his brown stylish dress shoes walking on the granite floors strongly, his humming making me smile and in turn, his eyes dancing as his 3 kids hug him home.
But daddy got sick. And we blamed all the things we thought, diet, lack of exercise, stress, but even amongst that stuff, we learned that it was his condition that was truly attacking him.
I came home from final exams in grad school and we all prayed in that ICU. You heard us, over and over.
And daddy, you know him, he's a fighter. He woke up and he was with us. Things were ok for awhile. I moved to California, got married.
Daddy was so happy at my wedding.
But it happened again, he was in the hospital during a visit to see us and then during my yoga teacher training. I gave him news of a granddaughter, (now the love of his life). It gave him life all over again, his little Laila. He woke up, ready to love her.
Nowadays, it's been many times where we've been scared. I'm grateful you hear us and sometimes think, mommy and nani's faith has given our family these chances at his life again. At our family's life to be whole. It's the prayers of all the people daddy helped and loved with his true to the bone kindness.
Lately, I have been seeing a lot of painful stories in my Facebook newsfeed where children are abducted, raped, killed. I decided to share my thoughts here, as my truest expression… a spoken word poem. Please share away, because we need to spread awareness. These are our children… the blood must stop.
Growing up, my father meant the world to me and vice versa. He still does. So, it makes my heart smile when I see my husband with my daughter, his pure love shining bright. Happy father's day to my amazing husband. You know, she may have my eyes…but you are right, she totally has your thumb.
As my little on turns 22 months next week, I found myself wondering where the time went. The cliche, they grow up in a blink of an eye, truly resonates with me. This morning, I hugged her wet body after her bath and was reminded of her as a newborn love sac, knees curled to chin. Her words stream out of her like lotus petals unfolding with the sweetness of her voice, so pure and full of wonder. In so may ways, she is is my little lotus flower… and here, I offer this haiku poem to my lotus of love.