Gujranwala to Gurgaon

 

On June 10^th, 2025, exactly a year ago today, my mother, Raj Jaggi, left us at the age of 92. I had long meant to write a eulogy for her, but for various reasons I was unable to summon the courage to sit down and write about her life.

This was an immense personal loss. I needed time to process it, and I consciously shut my mind down because whenever I began to reminisce about her, I would be left in a state of stupefaction. Unfortunately for me, mental torpor is not a state I like to inhabit. It has taken time, but I have finally begun to shift from grieving her death to celebrating her life.

My mother was born in Gujranwala, near Lahore, now in Pakistan, on July 11^th, 1932. She was one of six children: three older brothers, one older sister, and one younger sister. My grandfather was a civil engineer who worked for the Maharaja of Kashmir and spent significant time in Jammu and Kashmir. The family was education-oriented and deeply conservative, and like most families in the 1940s, educational opportunity was directed primarily toward the men. Her oldest brother became a banker, and the other two brothers became engineers.

 

The year 1947 marked the imposed breakup of our country into artificially drawn boundaries by imperial powers. It triggered one of the largest mass migrations in human history, accompanied by staggering violence and loss of life. Like so many others in East Punjab, my mother had to leave behind her home and move. Her journey is beautifully documented by the 1947 Partition Archive, a volunteer-led effort to preserve the personal stories of those who survived this treacherous period.

On or around August 16^th, 1947, my mother lost her father and one of her older brothers on a train coming from Pakistan. Unconfirmed reports suggested that a bomb blast at a railway station near Pathankot caused  massive loss of life. It is assumed that they perished there. Their bodies were never recovered by the family.

 

Establishing yourself in a new city is hard enough under ordinary circumstances, but losing the patriarch of the family, and under such tragic circumstances, was devastating. The people arriving from West Punjab were labeled refugees. To be forced to move within your own country, from one region to another, and to be called a refugee for it, is its own cruelty. Regardless, people gathered the pieces and moved forward. With little education and little to no money, my mother volunteered to work at the age of 17 to help support the family. She was hired as a punch card operator by the Indian Air Force, where she would eventually work for 43 years. Little did she know then that this single act would enable her to provide shelter and support for her future family: my father, my older brother, and me.

 

The year was 1954, and by then my mother had already been working for seven years when, on an otherwise unremarkable DTC (Delhi Transport Corporation) bus ride to work, she met my father. In today’s world, that might not raise an eyebrow, but back then, dating and falling in love were taboo. Arranged marriages were the norm, and here was my mother with the audacity to fall in love, and with a man whose family background stood in stark contrast to hers. A story that could easily be turned into a Bollywood film followed. Her two older brothers had by then become the patriarchs of the family, and they opposed the marriage. She did not care. Unconfirmed reports say she was ready to elope. Eventually the family relented, and my mother and father were married on September 12^th, 1954.

 

After the marriage, my mother was allotted accommodation by the Indian Air Force: a one-bedroom flat of about 700 square feet in Laxmi Bai Nagar, New Delhi. In 1956, she gave birth to my older brother, and I followed nine years later. I have distinct memories of Laxmi Bai Nagar. She would walk about a mile to the bus stop near Safdarjung Hospital, which may seem trivial, but it was anything but trivial, especially during the summer months in sweltering heat. From there she would board a DTC bus to R.K. Puram and make the same journey back. Every day, for 43 years. Eventually we moved to Lodhi Colony because of a promotion she received: a bigger apartment, but farther away. Given the fickle nature of my father’s business, it is fair to say that it was because of her that we survived and were educated in private schools that she could scarcely afford at the time.

 

A voracious reader, my mother taught herself fluent English simply by reading books. She read every single day. Despite losing sight in her left eye and undergoing two corneal transplants in her right, she still used a magnifying glass and kept reading. She did not need formal schooling to educate herself; Reader’s Digest was her tutor.

 

I moved to the United States in 1986, and not long afterward my mother joined me to help raise my daughter, who had a complicated birth, at a time when I was a single father. She lived with me through all my years in the United States, and I was fortunate beyond measure to have her. During that time she traveled to several countries. She was my rock and gave me unconditional support. In the end, because of her health, I had to move her back to India, where she spent her final years in the country from which her journey had once so violently begun.

 

The distance from Gujranwala to Gurgaon, as the crow flies, is only about 480 to 520 kilometers, roughly 300 to 325 miles. But her life was not measured in straight lines. It was measured in upheaval, endurance, labor, love, sacrifice, and grace. Her journey took long detours across history and around the world, only to bring her back, in the end, to her roots.

Imposter Syndrome

Imposter syndrome goes beyond merely feeling undeserving of your achievements. It’s a pervasive struggle that many face, which Jiddu Krishnamurti might describe as “conditioning.” Yet, its complexities often reveal darker layers. Over the past 10 to 12 years, I've endured multiple surgeries—some due to accidents, others stemming from genetics, and some potentially from lifestyle choices. These procedures leave scars that extend beyond the physical, prompting the existential question: “Why me?”

With each surgery, imposter syndrome tightens its grip. You begin to question the validity of your pain: Is it real? Am I imagining this? It must be all in my head! This internal conflict is especially pronounced if you're not severely restricted; you may manage to walk and complete simple tasks, yet struggle with physical activities that once came easily. The loss of those abilities can be mentally devastating, and I suspect this state of mind is more common than acknowledged.

We often see inspiring videos of individuals with disabilities excelling in extreme sports, which can intensify the feeling that your own pain isn’t valid. You try to “suck it up” and push beyond your limits, often exacerbating your condition. My surgeon measures success through range of motion, which I appreciate, but I yearn for pain relief. The surgeon’s advice can sow seeds of doubt: “Manage your pain with medication,” they say casually. Options like Gabapentin for nerve pain, Diclofenac, Meloxicam, Celebrex, Ibuprofen, Tylenol, Tramadol, OxyContin, or, God forbid, Dilaudid are presented as solutions. Yet, the constant use of these medications can wreak havoc on your liver or kidneys, not to mention the drowsiness that renders you ineffective at work. You find it hard to focus and wonder when this cycle will end.

Often, the most “helpful” comments come from those who know nothing of chronic pain. You can replace any ailment, but the response is typically the same lazy remark: “Be thankful; it could be worse.” Such condescension can plunge you deeper into the abyss of imposter syndrome.

Working with a great therapist has helped me unpack these feelings. To truly heal, you must delve into your past and confront the root causes of your insecurities. This requires vulnerability and honesty with both your therapist and yourself. Unfortunately, there’s no magic pill to cure this syndrome or break the pattern.

Incredible India

• The rustic smell of earth and the arsenic laced air.
• A forlorn dog, looking for food.
• A businessman on the run with $1.7 billion.
• Three businessmen on the run with $3.5 billion 
• Five bare foot toddlers running towards free food. 
• An aged cobbler on the street fixing soles, while broken souls walk past him all day. 
• Wires, wires and more wires. 
• A large leafless tree ostracized by the birds and apologetic for not being able to provide shade. 
• A cow rummaging through trash waiting for a plastic ban to take effect. 
• A selfish crow with a large piece of bread in his beak with uncanny resemblance to Nirav Modi. 
• A swanky couple exiting an Audi Q5 immersed on their iPhone X. 
• An equally un-swanky doorman hoping to buy an iPhone X in his lifetime. 
• A streetcar named desire parked on a street named despondence.
• An election poster on a wall that admonishes posters on the wall. 
• A man blissfully taking a piss on the wall under a “do not urinate sign”.
• A mosque, a Syrian church and a Hindu temple on the same street. 
• A run down shack, a gated apartment complex and a fancy bungalow on the same street.
• A corner shop with no corners to be found anywhere.
• A sign proclaiming “Lane Discipline” with no lanes on the road.
• A temple priest offering salvation while pelting stones at a stray dog.
• Street sounds creating a melodic symphony that resembles a dirge.
• A perfidious taxi driver ogling women passengers while massaging his crotch, with a sticker on the rear of his car that reads “This taxi respects all women”
• An auto rickshaw driver stopping in thick traffic to assist an old, visually impaired woman to cross the street.
• A big rig truck with “horny please” sign on the back
• A car with the sticker honestly proclaiming “Sometimes when we miss someone, we keep checking their profile…” 
• A tempo (mini truck) with this sign painted on it’s back. “No one stays a virgin, life fucks everyone”
• A used sofa cum bed on sale. 

Social Construct!! What is it?

Construct

“An idea or theory containing various conceptual elements, typically one considered to be subjective and not based on empirical evidence: history is largely an ideological construct.”

My mind is in the rut for the last 10 days about Social Construct! Within minutes of arriving in another country away from the friendly confines of your home, you start sizing up the environment around you, especially if it is your first time in that country or it is a place that you are unfamiliar with. It is similar to your first date. You are anxious, dying to get to know your date and the possibilities that lie ahead for you with this person. Exploring a new or an unfamiliar country is much the same. Your mind starts to stretch. Your senses (all of them) are challenged. There are things you immediately are attracted to and there are some elements that either make you uncomfortable or just absolutely repulse you. There are plenty of emotions that emanate which can be anywhere in the spectrum between great and awful. Regardless, you leave with more than you came with.

That’s why travel, as timorous as it may be to someone who doesn’t get out often enough, it can also change the minds of the staidest and ensconced in their surroundings. Don’t get me wrong, I have no qualms with those who choose never to leave their comfort zone to explore. My neighbor in Ohio had never driven farther than Sault St. Marie in Michigan which was only a few hours ride from Avon Lake, Ohio and had never even stepped a foot on an airplane. When he died at a relatively young age of 57, he left this big beautiful planet traveling a radius of no more than 300 odd miles. Did that make him less of a human being? Well, it depends on who you ask. If you asked him, he would say no, because he lived a fulfilling life. To him that meant being a good dad, raising 7 kids, running a pharmacy, being kind to anyone he ever met. He left an amazing legacy for his future generations of empathy, charity, loads of love and affection and much more. I miss him to this day. I have had the great fortune of meeting many others in my life who were ordinary people but made a profound positive impact on others. No books were published by them, they didn’t produce complex mathematical formulas, they didn’t run for office or do anything that would make them memorable to more than a few handful of people that crossed paths with them. They did change the world though. In their own small way, good or bad, they changed this world. They gave and they took. By definition that changes our environment.

Every living being on this planet contributes to its change. A cow provides milk to a child. That one cow alone made a difference in the life of that child, even if it was for one afternoon. I hope people stop and see trivial things around them and realize that even a fallen leaf on the road was part our ecosystem and made an impact. It is irrefutable.

Why then, do I ponder all of this? It’s primarily to search for what makes this world run. I am beginning to see that this world is based on some complex physical phenomenon that equates us in ways that are inexplicable to all of us. Epiphany, right? Actually no, I am sure I am not the first to propose this but “deep in my heart, I do believe” (a song we used to sing at our school assembly), that everything balances out in this world. That our life is based on a physical formula that we have not been able to decipher and I hope we never do. Because this needs to remain the greatest mysteries of our lifetime or perhaps the lifetime of this planet. Let that mystery die when this planet turns itself into a black hole.

Just like for every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction, just like every magnet has opposing forces, just like for every summer there is a winter. Everything in this world is balanced. You may not agree with that balance but unfortunately you have not been given the power to fix it and let’s take a moment to thank the universal forces for that. Humans have made extraordinary advances in every field and we can prolong life, attenuate the pain, the suffering but we are never able to control it. The schedule of people coming and going from this earth is not in our hands. You may think that by murdering or taking another life, you alone determined their fate? Nope, nada, nyet. That was an equation. You were a variable in that equation. End of story.

I could go on with multitudes of examples but I don’t want to turn this blog post into a polemic.

So that bring me back to the question that has been playing on my mind. What social construct should one follow?

Here are a few questions to ponder.

·      What is a social construct?

·      Who created it?

·      What gave this person or a group of people the right to create it?

·      Who manages the changes to this construct as we evolve?

·      Are laws based on Social Constructs?

·      If so, why?

·      What role does religion plays in it?

As we struggle in our own individual way and we all do really struggle. Grappling with challenges in life is universal. Mental, physical, health and other struggles are non-discriminatory. The cross all boundaries. There may be varying degrees of it but the pain and suffering doesn’t discern between the rich and the poor. Social constructs become meaningless and we turn to things that bring us comfort. Opioids, god, faith, people, alcohol, solitude whatever it takes to fix our ailments. You are Steve Jobs one day and the next day, deracinated from your throne of power and reduced to a rubble.

Trust me, this is leading somewhere. Stay with me.

Since this is my blog, I alone get to dictate the ending. It isn’t here to please you or to seek opprobrium. It is merely here to share my thoughts while I fly over the North Pole on my flight. I don’t know, there is something that I like about writing on a flight.

Over my 52 years, I have seen a lot. I have done a lot. Both good and bad. Have not kept track of the metrics and couldn’t produce a bar chart of it if anyone asked me for it. One thing has turned out to be prominent. Being nice in this world to others is far more fulfilling than being mean. Giving a part of you, whether it be physical, emotional, monetary, time, compassion or anything positive, makes you feel far more fulfilled than the opposite. There is a big caveat though and I am going to dumb it down tremendously. Give, but please don’t expect the behavior of the other person, pet, plant, tree, to change because of it. The second you put any expectation on it, you are breaking an equation. That equation will work itself out and you need to trust that the unknown universal force will work.

Please try it. The world is in desperate need for compassion. You need not look past Ghouta, Syria unless you were too busy counting likes of your post on FB of a selfie you took while eating that incredible Tiramisu at Gary Danko.

Thank You Dodger

Dear Dodger,

They say that all dogs go to heaven. There was even a movie made on it. I didn’t get to watch it. You see I am only 11 weeks old and I don’t know a lot about the world yet. I do feel your presence though and I wanted to write this note to thank you. I know you will wonder why but let me explain. 

I was born on November 18th, 2017 in Terrell, TX. It’s about 32 miles from Dallas, TX. I belong to a large family of Labradors and Poodle’s. My mom’s name is Paris Parker and my dad is a Labrador named Chip. I am a labradoodle. Brown and White. I have heard that my eyes have depth. I don’t know anything about that but my mom and dad’s owners raise puppies and sell them online. This is where my story begins. 

One fine day while I was running around the farm in Terrell with my siblings when I heard Kathy our breeder call out my name. She sounded excited and told me that I was going to California. I had no idea what that was or where it was. After a few days of trips to the vet, some shots and paperwork, the next thing I knew, I was being driven to Dallas Fort Worth for a trip to California. 

My ride was short but cramped. I was in a small crate and when I arrived at the airport, there were a ton of strange people putting tags and stickers on my crate. It was all very confusing to me. Scary even. Here I was playing in a large farm one minute and then the next minute, I was in a small locked crate and being sent to an unknown place being handled by unfamiliar faces. I had water and food in my crate but I was really scared. After arriving at the airport there was paperwork to be done and a few hours later, i was handed to a lady with American Airlines. I was given a final goodbye and sent of to an unknown destination and to people who I didn’t know. I can’t read but the sticker on my crate said CARGO! I may be a puppy but even I know, that I am not CARGO! I am a human!! Well, a dog. But still, I am way more human than most humans.  

The flight from Dallas to San Jose was long. Very long. I was annoyed and I must have annoyed many by my incessant barking but what could I do? I am a baby and I was scared and I had no idea where I was being sent and what was going to happen to me. Eventually, I fell asleep and was woken up by a loud thud. A few minutes later, I heard lots of commotion. Strange noises were coming from all over. I was tired and didn’t know what was going on. Then all of a sudden I saw light. My crate was removed from the dark cargo hold in the belly of the plate on to the tarmac. It seemed like a gorgeous sunny day in California? 

Another 30 to 40 minutes passed and I was brought to an office where two people were anxiously pacing the room. The lady who carried me in to the office told them that they had to show ID and sign paperwork. All of a sudden I see this really pretty face peering through the grill of my crate trying to catch my eye. All I could see were two strangers and they were as apprehensive as I was. They were your mom and dad and soon to be my mom and dad. 

It seemed like it took forever for the zip ties to be cut before the crate door could be opened. Your dad, was holding an iPhone and trying to record the entire episode. He thinks he is a millennial but he is really old and lame. Your mom though, she was all love! Within minutes, I was in her arms and she must have felt my heart beat, because it was racing. I had no clue or idea where I was or who was holding me. All I know is that it was gentle. 

The ride home from San Jose airport was short and I arrived at your house. I was greeted by a number of people when I arrived in Fremont. Everyone seemed so excited to see me but I was still not sure of what was happening. It was a big day for me and I was exhausted. Luckily I found two arms that were warm and welcoming. 

It was strange for me in many ways. Kathy, my breeder had given me a name. She called me Proud. My new parents were not sure what to call me. They debated for hours. They called me Sandy, then Duke, then Kershaw but finally settled on Rio. I like that name but somehow I get called Dodgy quite often and I wondered what or why that was. 

As days went by I found out that Dodgy was your nick name. You had lived in their home and their hearts for almost 14 years and after your passing they could not come to grips with getting another dog. On my first day, my mom was very distant with me. She held me and comforted me but it felt like she was not entirely comfortable with my presence. She was happy and she was sad. She was very conflicted but as days went by, I realized she felt that she was perhaps cheating on you. You were their dog for so many years and she loved you like no one else. Losing you has been hard on her but I want you to know that she still loves you and the way she treats me is a testament to that love. 

Your dad though, oh boy. Has he changed or has he changed? I am sure you can see from wherever you are that I get away with murder. Don’t be dismayed though. You may have gotten a rough deal with him but you paved the way for me. That’s why I am writing a thank you note to you Dodger. You taught my dad to love and nurture a dog. If it hadn’t been for you, he would have not known how to handle a puppy. He may still have a thing or two to learn but he does seem to be making significant progress. All dogs go to heaven. You did and you carved a place for me in the hearts of my parents. I miss my siblings and my family in Terrell but I think I can get used to this new place and the weather is nice as well. I am full of mischief but I hear that I am being signed up for some tutoring or at least that’s what it sounded like. 

They miss you dodgy, they still call me that at times but it doesn’t bother me because it comes from their heart and I know it is full of love for you. 

Rio

Dodger

Rio

Perfectly Imperfect

In the course of my lifetime, I have managed to piss off a

number of people. Unfortunately, there isn’t any definitive

authority that measures this statistic to compare with, nor is

there a benchmark for people with this behavior pattern to

gauge against. Whenever I attend a large party, I can’t help but

look around and identify people who I am either at odds with or

I chose not to associate with due to some previous form of

altercation or argument. This disturbs me and in my journey of

healing my soul, I often introspect and find ways to understand

the root cause of the issue.

There are many afflictions in this world where one can relatively

easily understand if you are affected by it and perhaps some

concrete ways to address it! There are some interesting ones out

there. The Aboulomania for instance, it involves occasional

onset of crippling indecision, there is Boanthropy, a strange

delusional disorder whereby a person believes himself to be a

cow or an ox and then there is Mary Hart Syndrome, it turns

out that there are reported cases of people experiencing seizures

upon hearing Mary Hart’s voice on TV. I don’t know who she is

but it sounds frightening.

To my knowledge, pissing people off or being overly combative

has not been classified as a infliction, disorder or a syndrome so

far or at least to my knowledge. Jiddu Krishnamurti once wrote

“ I am born with a label. I see that, as a human being, I am the

result of innumerable influences, social compulsions, religious

impressions, and that if I try to find reality, truth, or God, that

very search will be based on the things I have been taught,

shaped by what I have known, conditioned by my education and

by the influences of the environment in which I live. So can I be

free of all that?” I am not invoking this paragraph as an

absolution for my past paroxysm’s but merely an attempt to

discover my conditioning as a child and as a youth. Invoking

Jiddu Krishnamurti once again, “ If I set about deliberately to

free myself from my conditioning, that desire creates its own

conditioning. Whereas, if there is an understanding of desire

itself, which includes the desire to be free, then that very

understanding destroys all conditioning”. I know, heavy stuff but

this is a crucial step towards freedom.

My development as a kid was normal, there were no

extraordinary circumstances surrounding my childhood. There

were occasional severe beatings meted out by my dad for inane

pranks or harmless mischiefs but I can’t say it was unusual for

that era. Looking back, I do sometimes think that some may

have been over the top but these alone could not be a

contributing factor to my aberrant behavior. What then could

cause this? Why am I so high strung? Why do trivial things set

me off? Why do I have a biological core related to

combativeness?

To understand this, one has to understand anger. Most folks

only associate anger with loss of control, which is true but at the

very core, anger is an emotion. It can result from a conspecific

threat, a perceived loss or a feeling of unjustness among many

other factors. A key component of anger involves ego. The loss

of an identity that you have created of your own, the beliefs

about your personalty, talents and abilities causes anger. This

type of loss could be perceived or real. Contrast this with a loss

of an object (inanimate or otherwise) which is dear to you, in

such a situation you feel an emotion of sadness. The difference

between anger and sadness is the existence of a “willful agent”,

someone who acts deliberately. Think death by natural cause vs Murder.

We as human beings are nothing but a collection of our past

experiences. I am unable to identify the reason for my

preferences other than the fact that we are all conditioned by

our environment. Questioning our beliefs, values, goals and

judgements is the right thing to do because these are things we

hold dearly and identify ourselves with and every time anyone

challenges these, we get angry. Who then needs to change? Our

impulse always tells us that it’s the other person who needs to

change, but ultimately it is us who needs to act to make the

change. We need to question the basis of our sense of justice.

Self esteem plays a big role in anger. Having a low self esteem or

a low sense of self worth can cause hypersensitivity to criticism or

disrespect. I clearly see where I vacillate on a daily basis from

weak and vulnerable to strong, capable and worthy. I think

therein lies my problem. Somewhere along the line, I developed

a sense of low self esteem. I am not going to blame anyone in

particular for this as it does me no good, in fact I can't say that I

even know how it developed. All I know is that it took years to

develop it and it will take years to overcome it. The book “I am

OK, you are OK” delves into this complex topic and has been

used for many years to address issues related to self worth.

As cliche as it may sound, personal growth is a journey not a

destination. We need to work on it cognitively every day and

forgive ourselves for relapses and be forgiving and respectful to

others. I am confident that I will be able to find peace and

harmony in this journey of mine. I am however, content in
knowing that I am perfectly, imperfect.