“Some people’s lives seem to flow in a narrative, mine had many stops and starts. That’s what trauma does. It interrupts the plot…..It just happens and then life goes on. No one prepares you for it.”“I will get them for you – I had these leaves all through my chemotherapy, and so did Shalu-ben, and so did so-and-so!.”
My family went up in an uproar. “Are you going to listen to what Tulsi is telling you, or the oncologist?”
“What does Tulsi know?”
For me, at this point in my life, my mind said, “she knows a lot!”
Tulsi reappeared in my life after a long gap. Yes, I listened to her, since she had been through the same experience at literally half my age – she was 33, I am now 66. She had a lump in the breast and had it removed – I simply had a lumpectomy. But she knew exactly what I was saying when I shared my experience of the hospital, the daycare, the chemotherapy, the nurses, the nausea, fatigue, the feeling of utter helplessness, lying there and letting everyone do what the hell they wanted to you and with you. Tulsi understood exactly what I was going through, since she had been there before me. She advised me to shave off my head before the hair fell in droves and what to eat and what to do and not to do, and I listened to her, for it made sense to me, but more importantly, it gave me some peace.
The leaves arrived. I had them for precisely two days. They were bitter and the brew undrinkable. I complained, “I don’t think I can have these.”
“Try again – it’s not so bad.”
And then I suddenly remembered to check with the oncologist – “have you heard of lakshmitaru?”
“OMG – DON’T touch them – they are bad for you.”
My family nodded, “how can you listen to Tulsi – what does she know?”
“Who is Tulsi?”
That little kid I taught at school. How unlikely that we should bond again over cancer.
I was horrified to get a phone call in 2013, and have Tulsi tell me herself that she was in the hospital, and was to be operated for breast cancer. Ten years later I called her to tell her the same news about me. Ten years of silence broke with Tulsi saying, “of course I have to hear this from you. I called you and told you about me.” And then saying much more, sharing her experience, which I mapped with mine.
I met Tulsi as a 14-year-old in 1995, when I was a new teacher at the school. She was an old kid on the block, and rode home on the same school bus as my daughter. We tried to keep a distance in class, as teacher and student – at the time she had so many things to deal with her classmates at school. Always different, not understood, aspiring to be her best version in challenging times, and she reached out to me, asking for my support, and giving me her heart.
One Friday I was walking towards the staff room at the end of day, with what I called “frog in the throat” after three continuous classes – the exhaustion at the end of the week. Tulsi came running to meet me – and bowled me over with a hug and whispered, “you are the ultimate teacher.” This then became our mantra - me, I was the ultimate, she was the one who was struggling – and had reached out to me.
What she did not know then is that I was struggling too – deep inside. But my exterior was tough and confident, while I was breaking internally, not sure what I wanted emotionally. I needed this little child – I needed her to build my own internal resilience. By helping her find herself, I found myself over the four years we shared at school.
School days end, Tulsi graduated and left school and moved homes and moved on in her life. I hardly met her. For a few years she reminded me that I was the ultimate, we kept the anniversary of the first hug on June 20th, but gradually the ultimate blurred, as she grew older and away.
I always believe that the universe takes care of me and sends me a message when I need it.
My yoga teacher also had cancer many years ago. When she heard about me, she told me with great confidence – “you must have wheat grass every day!” I listened to her blindly. Since I was not sure what water would be used to grow the grass outside, I took great pains to find a way to grow the wheat grass at home. Four little pots of wheat grass grew, and when they were long enough to be harvested. I kept three in the front balcony. I woke up the next morning, and loudly claimed, “chalo, let’s find a way to make the juice.”
As I went to the balcony early that morning, I saw a little bird, which was strangulated and had died in the middle pot. I looked at the three pots in disbelief, my eyes going from one to the other. It is just the middle one – should I harvest the wheat grass from any of the other two?
No, I could not, despite what my neighbour said, “how silly – the other two are OK no?”.
But no, I couldn’t. It was an omen! We buried the bird and got rid of all the pots of wheat grass.
A week later I checked with my oncologist, “should I have wheat grass, will it help me?”.
“No, no, absolutely NOT. You are estrogen positive and wheat grass is full of estrogen. Don’t do any of these so-called natural remedies before checking with me.”
The bird gave up its life to support mine – a sign from the universe for me.
I told Tulsi about the wheat grass. “Yes, I did not have it either, it was not good for me.”
Tulsi knows.
So, I agreed to the leaves. However, not all leaves work for everyone – we need to choose which ones we pluck into our lives.
The little bird is no more, Tulsi is no more in my life, I hardly know her in her different role, now in her forties, married and leading an adult life. The universe brought me into her life at school, I served a purpose – I even gave her an A+ grade in her social studies assignment. At the time she told me, you write the A+ so small in a corner – write it big all over the page of my journal so that everyone can see it.
Yes, Tulsi, I am writing this for you, to see the larger-than-life experience that we both share – you before me and you plucked the leaves you needed, and shared them with me. My leaves are different now, but once, we were on the same tree – together!
I shall always cherish that!
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