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Saturday, February 2, 2013

I met a FB friend a couple of weeks ago.  She is a gynaecologist by profession.  She and her  husband, who is a surgeon, own  a hospital in a town in the North of India.

We met on Facebook, through a common friend.

What I had liked about  her was her sensitivity.  Her sense of humour.  . She could laugh at herself.

I had found her extremely pleasant.

She  noticed friends who had  gone inactive on FB and gently nudged them into action.   She was  generous with Pokes , Hugs and Smileys. 

She made an effort to connect with all her FB friends.  Whenever she could.  On phone, or by meeting  them when she visited their cities, or when they visited hers.   I used to be surprised  that she would wish to connect on a personal level with her virtual friends.  She has a long list of friends.

She has  a beautiful garden, with flowers of every kind, of every hue.  Peacocks are regular visitors to her garden. Each morning she posts pictures of blooming flowers from her garden. She posts pictures of the peacocks prancing on her terrace.  "roz savere, garden mein paudhe dekhne jaati hoon... i click some pictures then.  waqt hee kitna lagta hai."

She posts her thoughts.  Some I understand, some I do not. Each day her posts are commented upon, discussed, liked. She is applauded and teased.  She takes it well.I used to marvel at the conversation her posts generate.

Nearly each morning she posts a  picture of herself as she braces herself for the day ahead.

She also paints.  It is a hobby she says. But she could well be a professional.  The colours, the strokes the composition do not look amateur.  "mere table par canvas , paper aur colours hamesha hote hain... jaise hee patients aane lagtey hain, painting neeche push kar deti hoon."

 I had often wondered how she managed to pack so much in a day.

She and her family had survived a very bad road accident where they were nearly left for dead.

That explained her zest for life.  She was glad and thankful that they had survived with  broken bones and  scars.  Broken bones healed.  Plastic surgery took care of most of the scars.  But she did not let these break her spirit.

We met over lunch .  She spoke and she spoke. About herself, her family, her work , about her father whom she lost at a young age , about her mother who passed away just a couple of years ago. about her hobbies, and about our mutual friends. 

She said to me, "you see my face, I have had 14 surgeries here.  My cheekbones and most other facial bones are being held together by wires.  The plastic surgery has left some part of my skin insensitive to touch.  " 

I value her smile all the more now!

She visited my home.  Met my family, my parents.   On the way back , she commented, "you are lucky to have your parents around.  Aise kitnee baar hua hai, ke main phone leke baithi rehti hoon, kissise  baat karna chahti hoon.  Poora contact list scroll  kar leti hoon .     tab I wish, mamma hoteein.  Unheeko phone karke baat kar letee." .   She was lost in thought . For that fraction of a second. 

She looked up at me and  smiled.

As our eyes met,  I felt I  understood.    With all our achievements , with all our  loved ones around,   we are but lonely.  At all times, battling our personal demons.  How we come out of it,  defines the kind of person we are. 

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