Cerebrating Myself.....

(Winner of the "Celebrating Myself" competition, by Women's Web; 22-3-12)

There is all kinds of brain research happening  at cutting edge levels these days.

Folks do all kinds of experiments to figure out why we have left brains and right brains, and what each side is supposed to specialize in.  All these calculating, analytical scientists, immersed and shining, in a left brain neuronic ocean , glinting in the cerebral sun. And then there are the dreamers, the visionaries , artists and poets and ordinary intuitive folks,  who are convinced they are doing everything "right", and beaming about it.

I have a hypothesis  which is a function of time.

As a child,  in the 50's and early 60's, resplendent in the middle class, one lived by rules, in all aspects of life. Slogging ensured a degree of success. Things you celebrated about were universal. Success at school, sports, an honor in the society in which we lived. Standard festival celebrations.  And so I celebrated  along with the proud parents.  Birthdays were not "planned", but they happened, and were celebrated, without being unduly ecstatic about the fact that time never stopped, and you got a year older.  Terribly left brained, if you ask me.

College and University, was a time to celebrate a coming of age, a companionship with friends, occasional academic successes and the celebrations started to get a tinge of right brain madness.  Reverses and disagreements in life  were managed leaning on right brained folks,  while maintaining a left brained sense of "feet on the ground".  Celebrations were about uninhibited laughs, enjoying with friends,  whispers ,gossip,  treks and trips, while the left brain kept nudging about examinations, curfews, time and other then unpleasant concepts.

Like a car taking the on-ramp to the expressway, life accelerated, and stayed on course for many years, through work, marriage, children, extended family, and assorted events lighting up along the path.  My celebrations were all about  a child's birth,  the first words, the first step, the joy on the face of a grandparent of four score years, going for a walk with a 4 year old grandson,  fun events and  howlers at school  by the children.  Celebrations were the order of the day the princess arrived, born of the heart and not of the womb, and slowly proceeded to nullify the borders between the two organs, in a  flood of amazing life experiences.

Life has been a celebration of small steps by small folks, then big steps by small folks,  and occasionally , me hitting myself on the head in a right brained way, when I realized that successes to be celebrated in life were never all academic, but of myriads of types. Celebrating has been about facing difficulties in some one's education and overcoming them  day by day, it was about realizing that every human being has a different development plan, and the difference was to be celebrated.

Another  kind of celebration was about being there for so many when they looked for a shoulder and a mind  and a ear to lean on, in the evening of their life. A celebration of the honor, of being in the right place at the right time , for them as well as for yourself. Celebrations, slowly ceased to be about acquiring things,  like objects of leisure and the good life, and became more about giving  and participating  and not worrying about who thought or said what of you.

Slowly over the years, the "l" in my celebrations, has tended to become an "r" .  From "celebrating"  my life, it has slowly become a fun exercise in "cerebrating " it.  Thoughtfully, intuitively, and sometimes, even going against, what might have been considered, by someone, somewhere, the grain.

And so I "cerebrate" today,   giving my mind free reign,  enjoying forays into the world of words and art, unconcerned about accepted norms. Cerebrating has been all about joining in some one's fun on discovering an aptitude, possibly at an unexpected juncture; it has been a sense of peace and having tried, when doing something that went against a left brained norm;  and it has been a realization, that the more you give , the more you can both cerebrate and celebrate.

At the end of the day, its really about "l" and "r" ;  and how you move from one to the other , in time.

Clearly, as you might have noticed,  my path baking research on how a left brained  celebrating kid turns out into a right brained cerebrating geriatric soul, and can laugh about it....



Submitted for the "Celebrating Myself" contest at Women's Web.

Mindware

I just read something a FB and blogger friend posted. 

A must read ; please read this.

Today is the last day of the year. Some, looking back, thinking, and some, looking ahead, hoping, wishing.

And then it occurs to you that for some, there may not be a next year.

And so you try and think of what you and they have enjoyed together. When time wasn't an issue. And whether , now, so many years later, you can recreate that. And it really never has anything to do with the physical capabilities of the person, or for that matter, yours. 

L was in his late eighties. A whimsical determined person,  who was very fit till a year ago, and  had doctors begging him to get off the treadmill during a stress test, which he thought was a complete lark. At some point age simply caught up , and he was now bedridden . His mind sometimes played games, and he would notice people but not recognize them. Except those he saw daily.  He had tons of what he called walking friends, but not, say, a key close friend. And these were the ones he missed , along with the walking. Something he indulged in daily , in the nearby park. And he would look longingly at the park when they put him in a wheelchair and took him to the balcony, to enjoy the flowers and fresh air.  

So one  Diwali, when more family was around, they hired a stronger wheelchair, capable of handling rough pebbled roads.  He had to be lifted from his bed , onto a chair-with-wheels, and then carried down the stairs two floors, to the waiting new wheelchair. The cycle-repair man outside the gate offered to help in the lifting. And before you knew, he was settled into the chair, a monkey cap on his head, assorted  bags, and catheters hidden behind a warm shawl that was wrapped around him. The sky was getting overcast. And they wheeled him down the road to the park, much to the delight of the old fruit seller outside , and some of the neighbors. The former came over with apples, the latter smiled and waved. Some joined in.

A few minutes later he was in the park. He didn't recognize some friends, but there was a great deal of smiling and handshaking, and nodding .  There was a kind of smile on his face that you show when you smell something wonderful.  Maybe it was the flowers, the trees, the children.  And suddenly there were a few raindrops.  He came out of his dream in panic. Wanted to rush home. And one of the neighbor's kids rushed over with a huge umbrella, and held it over him. He was safe.  So many old neighbors came out to meet him, knowing that he may not recognize them.  One of them was his doctor. But it was time to go home. The raindrops , went away like they came. But the umbrella remained, and the kids. And so they reached home, and carried him upstairs.  He rested, happy , but tired. And for the first time in many days, slept well that night.  
 
And then , a few years later, there was T.,  a career and family woman,  unmarried,  herself in her 80's, paralyzed waist down after a massive stroke,  who had friends ranging in age from 30 to 75. Who would all come to see her and chat. Sometimes, she would get confused, and speak something repetitive. Other times, she would make a comment that would stun someone in her field of expertise, which was medicine.  What she really enjoyed in her fitter days, was going to one of Pune's best "hangouts" and enjoying excellent South Indian breakfast and coffee with her friends. This was something we did without fail when we met her on our trips to Pune. 

And so a day was quietly fixed when her family members would be there, particularly the young grandkids, and a whole bunch of us went over to the hangout place which made and packed everything piping hot and fresh for us. She was known to them, and I like to think the food had an additional special ingredient that day.  Her family was kept in the loop, and they organized the table ware. We landed up in her room, and she  greatly enjoyed her repast, amidst the younger kids tucking in , like idlis were going out of fashion, and the others doing a more sedate job, between unobtrusively trying to help her with a shaking spoon, and blaming it all on the size of the wada.  She lay back on her raised bed, tired, but happy at the scenario.  A niece-in-law came in with coffee for everyone.  T just had water.  She was really full. In body as well as mind.  The kids showed their photos and artwork, she beamed. There was a lot of ribbing happening. It isn't clear if she understood the references, but she listened, and looked at peace.

Life went on. And one day,  both L and T were no more. Their respective families  mourned and continue to mourn.


But what is remembered is not their sickness, inabilities, and  troubles, but the smile that played on their faces, their sense of belonging and fulfillment  of mind and small wishes, and the joy,  that they continued to be a part of all of us.       

I recently posted about a family friend in her 90's, who lies in a virtual coma, tubes through her nose , a prayer bead necklace clutched in her hand. Her son -in-law, regularly recites , at her bedside, some Sanskrit prayers that are her favourites. Nobody knows if she can hear. (She never responds when called). But the minute he starts the prayers, her fingers move across the prayer beads!  

And so it seems, that along with the anatomy Hardware and  the memory-managing Software that defines us, there is also something called Mindware.

Maybe all living beings have that.

This is the amazing  thing that fires up and functions, extra well, in one's  last days,  regardless of the analysed-to-bits anatomical and physical systems. 

Something that lights up the eyes, of someone , who may not see another year.

And creates wonderful comforting memories, for those who will

Mindware.  It was always there.  


Like the coming New year.  2012.

Greetings !

Stem Cells of the Mind ?

Living in today's world, where obsolescence is built in , one never ceases to be amazed at the Human Body. No one really knows, absolutely everything about it.

True, thanks to brilliant instruments, amazing diagnostic techniques ,tests, and fast computer analyses, we keep learning newer and newer things about our bodies.

And the most path breaking type of research happens to be taking place in a field, which has to do with how a human is actually formed. The process, the cellular magic , that has been happening since time immemorial. Fertilization of an ovum and sperm, each loaded with what may be called attitudinal genes, equally, striving towards the formation of a human with a full complement of chromosomes.

You yourself, wonder, as you sit reading this, how that little single fertilized egg, that latched on to a caring uterus wall, actually ended up becoming you, complete with your interesting intellect, your musical ear, your nimble fingers that do origami, and your confidence, that gets a class quiet, as soon as you enter in......

At the base of everything is the amazing ability of a single cell, to subdivide, and make copies of itself. The inspiration and energy to do that comes from the instructions coded in the DNA , which sits in the nucleus of the cell. It is very interesting to notice how this process develops.

The fertilized egg, undergoes some changes before getting implanted on to the wall of the uterus. It takes about 5 days, and during this time, the embryo, is actually called a blastocyte. It develops and forms an internal set of cells, an outer set of cells, and an intermediate set. The outer ones develop into a placenta, and the pregnancy is on its way soon. But what intrigues us, is the inner most set of cells, in this 5 day period.

Once the fertilized egg implants itself in the uterine wall, the innermost set of cells, keep subdividing into copies of themselves up to a point. After which the same subdivided cells, by some precoded instruction within, start specializing. Some become brain cells, some become heart cells, some become skin, some become liver, and so on and follow a preplanned pattern to form the necessary organs, which you eventually get to see vaguely, when you accompany a pregnant dear one for an ultrasound exam.

The smart scientists have realized that the main wizards here are the cells that get created in the 5 days before latching on to the uterine wall. Why ? Because these are hitherto "general" embryonic stem cells, which, with the necessary scientific knowhow can eventually become cells that specialize in building a particular organ like the heart, or even brain.

These are called stem cells . And you end up appreciating the nomenclature, as you visualize a soft plant shoot, developing into a firm stem and later a stout trunk , which leads to the creation of a wonderful tree, complete with leaves, thorns, roots, flowers , branches and so on.

For some time now, scientists have known about the existence of special purpose stem cells , such as the bone marrow cells. One often hears of people being asked to donate bone marrow to someone suffering from a particular form of cancer. There are issues of the donors bone marrow matching that of the patient. And doctors screen the various donors for a perfect match.

Today, scientists have found, that many of our organs, eg brain, muscles, etc, have besides the accomplished trained cells , so to speak, some stem cells that lie dormant within actual organ . These cells, are activated automatically by our bodies, under specific circumstances, to repair and heal the particular organ in difficult times. How they get activated, how they lie quiet, and how much of a repair they can conduct and how well , is something that is coded in the cells, as instructions.

But the scientists are actually interested in the embryonic cells in the blastocytes. Which are , what could be called , "bahuroopi" cells, that actually at that point are general purpose embryo cells, with the capability of later on becoming special purpose cells.

Where do they get these cells ?

Thanks to In vitro fertilization techniques today, once a fertilized egg is implanted in a woman's uterus, and is likely to thrive, most of the extra fertilized eggs in the petri dish, would be going waste. These instead , now make it to various Life Sciences Labs , where they are preserved and studied , and the secret of how they can be made to specialize is deciphered.

Once we know that we can make the general purpose stem cells into special purpose stem cells, we need to realize that the sky is the limit as far as usage goes.

So many older people today suffer from things like Alzheimer's disease, and Parkinson's disease, which are caused due to the death of certain cells in our brains. An ability to utilize the stem cells here, would be a gift from the Gods for these geriatric patients.

Diabetes which is now rampant, is often caused by non working insulin producing cells in the pancreas. Those that suffer from Type 1 diabetes, because of this, often suffer from an early age, and must take medications/injections for life, that cause other restrictions and complications in other bodily functions. Just think what a wonderful future these folks could have, if we could introduce in their pancreas, stem cells that not only produce insulin themselves, but multiply and make copies of themselves.

There are so many diseases , like Multiple Sclerosis , again a life changing disease, which has to do with nerve cells deficient or even missing something called myelin. Stem cell therapy for such a situation is also being studied. Burn patients, could get a new life, if we could implant stem cells, that are trained to become skin cells. So very relevant in our country where the current census is showing up a skewed sex ratio, and women's issues are still dictated by misinformed ultra conservative male gramsabha heads.

So stem cells therapy , if we learn the intricacies of it all, is likely to become the technology of the 21st century . It certainly will not be something in pill form, but will be a careful procedure, carried out under proper medical supervision. Very recently, scientists have found that one can harvest these embryonic stem cells from the cord blood, soon after a baby is delivered. Several companies now offer to store these cells for your child's future.

We can look forward to our favourite cricketers not having to undergo complicated operations to heal broken limbs and abused parts, thanks to stem cell therapy. Maybe some artist who has lost his voice will be able to regain it back, by treating the voice box with stem cell therapy. We can imagine and we can speculate.

But I often wonder, if we could repair minds. Has anyone been able to identify special purpose stem cells for the mind ? Is there a way, we can treat our criminals, and psychotic people with these ? Can alcoholism , that has destroyed so many families, be cured by treating the addiction manager in the brain with this therapy ? Does that sound Orwellian ?

Research is still on. There is the matter of the ethics in harvesting the embryonic stem cells from the blastocytes, and playing around with them. Before these kind of technologies happen in our country, there will have to be laws and rules .

But we are a strange people in this country . We do not respect laws and we revel in breaking rules. Its like a disability itself.....

Like I said before, we badly need some nurturing and repairing of hurt, and disabled minds. Our forefathers knew various forms of it, like meditation, penance, prayer, and an aptitude for leading a balanced life.

We, the modern, improved version, sorely need Stem cell therapy for the Mind.

Little minds, Big questions.....

                                                            For 2011 :

 

They lived on the shores of the lake. The house was actually ancient, and the unusually small size of the windows, and the tantalizingly non horizontal window ledges often gave you the feeling of staying on a ship. Right next door was a brand new, modernistic, official looking guest house of the Institute, with undulating lawns that swept a graceful curve down to the lake.

For the little boy who lived in the old house, it was the place that he could visit on his own, to play with his friends. No traffic , no roads to cross, no dark corners and eerily moving tree branches, and he would rush home as soon as it got dark. He lived on a wooded campus, and these buildings bordering the lake had a bit more natural light than the others.

His grandmother had moved in with them. Earlier, Both his grandfather and grandmother would come to stay. But sometime when he was in first grade, his grandfather fell sick. He would often bring his cars and other things and play with them in his grandfathers room, actually because everyone was always doing something there, but mostly because his grandfather liked to watch him play and chat with him. One day, he was taken to an aunts house after school, and when he returned home in the late evening, he found that his grandfather was no longer around, and his grandmother looked different.

"God has taken him to heaven" , they told him, "because he was so sick. He will be well there".

They told him the same thing when he lost his baby brother 2 years earlier. He himself was younger then, and believed what everyone was saying. And now his grandfather. This whole thing about God was getting a bit suspicious. No one explained just how God came and took the folks with him. Was he invisible, did he come at night, how come no one heard ? And this was broad daylight. How come no one noticed anything going on ? Heaven was somewhere up there . Birds flew, but you could still watch them......

By and by his grandmother came to live with them and they settled into a nice routine. His parents worked, but came home for lunch. His mother would glance through his school books in the afternoon, and give him some assignments to do if there was no homework. His grandmother would take a short nap while he played, and then would supervise his studies as she had her afternoon tea. He was two years older now, and they were learning stuff in History at school about which his grandmother knew things. Like the struggle for Independence. She had even seen some of the people for real, when she was a young girl . And he only had photos in his text books.

Come 5 o'clock, and his friends would land up , calling out to him in sing song voices, as they tried to grab his attention , as they jumped up and down outside his window, calling him to come out and play. They were all at an age, where normal modes of entries and exits into gardens and things were to be avoided. One entered through broken fences, slid down bansiters instead of descending stairs, and the bigger their mother's eyes became, the more they tried to do such things.

He'd be just about done, and he'd then rush out with his friends to play, sometimes in the garden and sometimes on the slopes of the guest house next to their house. His grandma had her own group of other grandmas who met on the lawns there. But they waited for their sons and daughters-in-law to get home at sundown. The day was a bit cooler then, and walking was more pleasant. The elderly ladies often sat there till dinner time. The little boy would be intermittently back home with his entire gaggle of friends to drink water, attend to freshly acquired wounds and scrapes, and sometimes, simply to show off some freshly acquired book or toy contraption . He and his grandmother shared a room and the boys would be all over the place with their grubby hands and feet. Around eightish, his mother would dispatch him once again next door to the guest house lawns, to escort his grandma home. She didn't see too well in the dark, and he would go meet her and escort her back , holding on to her hand, to the highly approving glances of her friends, whose grandchildren were older and so, otherwise busy.

Into this well set wonderful routine, his mother came home one day to find a strange expression on her mother -in-law's face. Her eyes were full, but there was no sadness. Just a sense of wonder.

That afternoon, they had sat down to do history. Talking about the new stuff he was learning.

"Aji (=grandma), just be grateful you didn't live around the time Raja Ram Mohan Roy lived", he said, his finger on some filling-in-the-blanks-assignment on a page of his book.

(Raja Ram Mohun Roy of Bengal was one of India's greatest social reformers in the 19th century, and many of these reforms were beneficial to women. He was opposed to the idea of, and worked for the abolition of the practice of "Sati" where widows burnt themselves on their husbands funeral pyre)

She was nonplussed.

What was wrong with Raja Ram Mohun Roy, and of all the people she could think of, why was this 7 year old chap against him ? Where did she come into all this talk of freedom fighters, great leaders of India, and the Independence movement etc ?

She looked at him questioningly, taking him very seriously, as only grandmothers can.

He looked at her, alarm in his eyes. Then he put out his arm, and placed his hand in her lap, as if to let her know, that, come what may, he was there...

"You know , if Aba (=grandpa) and you had lived during those times, people would have made you perform "Sati" after he died !".....

He probably had gory visions based on the terrible descriptions and graphics shown in various textbooks , and for a minute, he just held on tight to her hand.

She was stunned. His grandfather's death still played on his mind. When he studied the social reforms introduced by the Bengali gentleman in class, this must have occurred to him. For a child with a penchant for vivid imagination, this was just too traumatic. First they told him that God took his grandfather, and now Ram Mohun Roy and the terrible practice of Sati.

Then the humor just hit her. Which was as well, as the whole scenario was getting a bit serious. It was more than a century since the terrible custom was abolished. Even in her own childhood, she didn't wonder too much about these things; widow remarriage, even then, was being encouraged, education for girls was considered useful. And here was this 7 year old chap, totally trauma struck, with the concept of his grandpa's death, his grandma, and Sati.

"Not to worry. Your grandfather would not have permitted that. Those were the old days, and everything has changed now. Everyone's mother today is educated, and some , like your mother and aunts , even work. And all this is because Raja Ram Mohun Roy convinced the government then to make a law saying Sati was not allowed. "

She got up to make a cup of tea, and bring him his afternoon glass of milk; but really to wipe away her tears. She couldn't figure out whether they were of joy or sadness. Certainly more of the former than the latter. She and her grandson were 70 years apart. She had other, much older grandchildren, but this was the first one to get into a panic over an age old practice followed in the early 19th century, and worry about her .

He went off shortly to play with his friends and his grandma entertained her son and daughter-in-aw with this story when they returned.

He and his grandmother enjoyed each other's company for a few more years. She passed away one night in her sleep, when he was asleep . He was still a young child.

Wordlessly, stoically, chin up, after bending and touching his grandma's feet, he went off to his normal day at school , taken care of , by the neighbors, for the day. Young children are not part of the various formalities associated with funerals.

By then I think he had figured out what happens. When he came back with his friend's parents, late that evening after everyone reached home, he didn't ask any questions. There were a whole bunch of folks staying over. He kept fiddling with his books, pestering a cousin to sharpen his pencil just so. He went into the kitchen before bedtime, and poured himself a glass of milk, his hand unaccustomed to handling steel containers with about 2 litres of milk; mixed the cocoa into it, just like his grandma did for him, and came and sipped it, slowly, as he sat leaning next to his Dad. He wouldn't be sleeping in the room he shared with grandma for a long time after that.

This time there was no confusion about the mechanics of how one went away with God without anyone noticing.

Miraculously, he had learned the most difficult. He had learned to accept. Death.



(A true story....)

Get your story published in The Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul – A book of Miracles at BlogAdda