Room 23

by Kavita Basi

  I was escorted to the front of the school with an entourage of teachers and students behind me. At the front of the school, there were hundreds of people—journalists, paparazzi, and the general public. The street was heaving with people and loud with commotion. I had never before seen so many people outside the school.

  The traffic in front slowed to a standstill as we anticipated our guest’s arrival. I could hardly see anything and was being pushed and shoved. I protected the bouquet with intense care and devotion. Then a large black car with a driver and tinted windows that made it impossible to see inside pulled up in front of the school, and a hush fell over the crowd. I tried to peep through the crowd to get a glimpse.

  A very fragile old woman got out of the car. She was dressed in a white sari with a blue-striped border and had her head covered. She was fair and had a gentle smile. As she walked toward me, I presented her with the flowers.

  “Welcome, Mother Teresa,” I said, bowing as I had been instructed to do.

  I had to stand next to her for a few moments so all the photos could be taken by the vast paparazzi, who had been eagerly waiting all morning. As we walked into the school, everyone she passed bowed with their hands together.

  “Namaste,” they all chanted, a typical, respectful Indian greeting.

  I wondered who this woman was. I couldn’t believe such a frail, old woman had so much prestige and commanded so much respect. Why did everyone love her so much?

  Suddenly I felt important because I was the one chosen to spend the day with her and show her the school. And there was no pressure of lessons or going to class. I only had to show her around the school and tell her about our studies and great activities.

  When we entered the school chapel, Mother Teresa went straight to the front to pray to the large statue of Jesus. She knelt down and instructed me to do the same. We stayed put for a long time, Mother Teresa silent and praying.

  I stole peeks at her while she was praying, thinking, This woman is really, really old. Why is she doing this? What is she gaining from it?

  Reciting this story to Professor King reminded me of my long-held desire to make a difference in the world. I wanted to help people like Mother Teresa did.

  “I can’t believe it. My mother raised money for Mother Teresa’s charity,” Professor King said. “She did it all her life. Now I do the same.”

  “That is such a coincidence!” I said. I seemed to be experiencing more coincidences than ever.

  After taking the time to look back and share these stories with Professor King, I realized I was the person I’d become because of my experiences. Because I studied in India, I could read and write in Hindi, which is rare for members of my generation brought up in the United Kingdom. I also learned about my culture’s festivals, our food, and our music. India is also where I learned to draw and to sing, which quickly became hobbies of mine outside of school. I was proud of these achievements.

  But I still struggled with believing that the change in my personality from the brain hemorrhage was a positive one, even though Professor King urged me to be patient.

  The evening was exactly how I imagined it would be—perfect. The doctors had to leave early since they were all on call early in the morning.

  After we said our good-byes, I joined Geraldine in the kitchen to clean up.

  “My husband had a brain hemorrhage twenty years ago,” she suddenly offered.

  “You’re kidding!” I had no idea.

  “No. He’s had a lot of trouble with his personality and sense of identity.”

  I found it hard to believe this was just a coincidence. “I’ve been having similar problems,” I said. “Therapy has really helped.”

  I took down Geraldine’s contact information and sent her the video blogs Deepak had taken of me in the hospital. Later that week I received a message from her that shocked me:

  “My daughter came home from school and told me the school had done a short presentation on the concept of ‘hope and never giving up,’” she wrote. “They showed your vlog for the presentation!”

  My video blog?

  I had no connection with this school. Out of all the content on the web they could have chosen, they’d chosen mine. I was touched. And this was a reminder to me about the importance of maintaining perspective. For most people, life is busier than ever; we work and rush around trying to get everything done in life. But I now realized how vital it was to step back and really look at what was happening on a larger scale.

  It was no coincidence that I’d met Geraldine, I realized. I wasn’t alone in my struggles. And I hoped my video blogs would be of some comfort to her husband and some inspiration to her daughter and her classmates.

  Not long before my thank-you dinner, my yoga teacher said to me, “You’re very in tune with yourself and your surroundings.” She tilted her head. “If you could go back in time and change what’s happened to you, would you? Or would you allow it to happen?”

  I looked at her and paused before I spoke. “I would allow it to happen.”

  I was surprised to hear myself admit this. I wouldn’t wish suffering through a brain hemorrhage and the recovery process on anyone. And yet, despite everything, I felt like I was in a better place now—like I was beginning to understand my purpose. The pieces of my life seemed to be interconnected in a way I had never noticed before. I wouldn’t want to go back to who I was before— though I didn’t know if my family would make the same choice.

  There was a time when I didn’t think I’d make it to my fortieth birthday, a time I didn’t think I’d even make it out of the hospital. But I’d made it. I was lucky.

  I walked into work that morning like it was any other day. But I was excited—not only because it was my fortieth birthday but also because we were going on holiday to Washington DC the next day, and from there on to Los Angeles. We’d been planning this vacation for six months. I was excited about going to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.

  As I walked to my desk, I thought about my recent trip with Jasmine to a local art gallery. While we were there, we sat and listened to the president of the Royal Academy of Art talk about how he feels when he’s creating art.

  “When an artist creates he has a blank canvas to create whatever he wants, like footprints in fresh snow.”

  This was how I was feeling about my life. I was a blank canvas and could be anything and anyone I wanted. It was still breaking my heart that everyone was saying I was so different, however. As much as I embraced who I was becoming, I still had some hesitation, and there was resistance around me.

  My nephew, Khyle, and I were at the gym together one day, and I decided to get his take on the situation.

  “Do you think I’m different than before?” I asked him.

  “For the better, I think, Auntie Kavita,” he said thoughtfully. “You were a positive person before, but you’re even more positive now. If you want to do something, you just go ahead and do it. I admire you for that.”

  I’d always been a doer, but now I didn’t wait—didn’t hesitate—I just did. Khyle reminded me of the Walt Disney quote I often repeated to my kids: The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing.

  I was shaken out of my thoughts when I arrived at my desk, which was decorated with a “Happy 40th Birthday!” banner and lots of balloons. I couldn’t believe it. My team had decorated my desk! There were gifts, and collages of people in fitness poses with my head on the bodies, and photos of me with quote bubbles of things I regularly said to my team. It was clear they had carefully selected images from my social media sites and taken time to create this for me. I was touched. This was something I often did for others, but I’d never expected anyone would do it for me. The last collages anyone had made for me were the ones my cousin had put together when I was in the hospital.

  Thirty of my team members gathered around my desk. They presented me with a huge cream sponge cake with candles and sang me “Happy Birthday.” Then they passed me
gifts and showed me a short video of messages they’d all recorded for my birthday.

  After a big group hug, I gave a little speech.

  “I’m so lucky to have such a great, supportive team. These few months of me coming back to work have been really challenging, and I could not have gotten through it without all of you!”

  Just to say this to my team was overwhelming and emotional for me. I cried then, full of pure, joyful appreciation.

  Later I was asked to meet some of the team in the breakout room. When I rounded the corner, huge cheers and applause erupted. It wasn’t just my team but also other teams from throughout the company. They had a buffet lunch prepared.

  I had always made an effort with everyone in the building, whether they were working with me or not, especially after my brain hemorrhage. Everyone had adapted to this new me, and I felt so special and honored that they had put so much effort into celebrating me. I was equally celebrating them.

  Inside the Smithsonian in Washington DC, it was clear we all wanted to see different things. Jay wanted to see the dinosaur exhibits. Jasmine and Khyle wanted to learn about human history. Deepak wanted to go back to the hotel and relax! But what caught my eye was the Butterfly Pavilion, a 1,200-square-foot tropical climate with more than 400 butterflies and moths (thirty species) from North America, Central America, South America, Africa, and Asia. There was a contained area in the museum that showcased the most exotic butterflies in the world.

  This was the exhibit I was going to preserve my energy for.

  We walked through the museum, checking off history for Jasmine and Khyle and dinosaurs for Jay. As we made our way to the Butterfly Pavilion, I thought about how years ago I’d purchased a Blue Morpho as a contained glass ornament for my home, taken with its iridescent color, and now I’d been seeing them everywhere, in my dreams and odd places like hotel wallpaper—so much so that I’d decided to look up the symbolism of butterflies and the Blue Morpho. The information said butterflies represent change, transition, and transformation, and suggested they could help a person facilitate change in their own life. I was going through the biggest change and transition in my life. I was a different person, though I didn’t feel totally transformed yet.

  Rainforest natives felt the Blue Morpho was also a wish-granter: “If you see one,” the web page said, “you should make a wish.”

  Like a falling star, I thought.

  I thought about what I’d wish for. I didn’t know if the Butterfly Pavilion would have Blue Morphos, but I wanted to be prepared as we made our way to the exhibition.

  When we got out of the elevator, there was a long line outside the exhibit.

  Deepak rolled his eyes.

  I approached a volunteer. “Excuse me, where do we get tickets?”

  “The exhibit is sold out,” she said.

  “Oh no,” I said. I turned to my family, very upset, then turned back around, resolved to try my best to fix this problem. “We’re just here for a couple of days from the UK. This is the only thing I wanted to see,” I pleaded. “Can you please make an exception for me and my son?”

  I could see in the woman’s eyes she felt sorry for me. “Okay,” she said.

  I was beyond excited.

  Jay and I passed through two sealed chambers and into the humid exhibit.

  “It feels like being in a giant incubator,” I said.

  Butterflies and moths of all sizes and colors fluttered everywhere in the rounded room. One landed on the person right in front of us.

  “Look, Mum!” Jay said, pointing at it.

  “Walk carefully, and please don’t stand on anything,” the docent said.

  The butterflies and moths looked so busy, dancing across the exhibit, alighting on jasmine, verbena, and other plants and flowers, sipping nectar and collecting pollen. Feeding stations of ripening melon and pineapple and sugar-water-soaked sponges were also scattered throughout the exhibit.

  “Why do you have moths?” I asked the docent.

  “We believe butterflies evolved from their closest moth relative with the emergence of flowering plants.”

  “How do you get them?”

  “New chrysalides are sent to us every week from around the world. We hang them in the emergence chamber so visitors can see their first flight.”

  Now I needed to see the emergence chamber!

  “Are there any Blue Morphos?” I held my breath, hoping for a yes.

  “Yes,” the docent said, smiling. “You should be able to see one.”

  I knew my family was hungry and ready to go, but I didn’t want to leave the exhibit without seeing a Blue Morpho.

  “The average butterfly’s lifespan is twelve days,” the docent called out into the room. “Let’s not shorten this. Be careful where you step.”

  Twelve days? I had no idea the lifespan of an adult butterfly was so short. Suddenly the exhibit felt that much more precious, like we were experiencing a miracle. Twelve days. By the time our vacation was over, most of these butterflies would be dead. Gone. This made me sad to think about. I thought about my own life and how it had almost been cut short.

  I knew my family was hungry and waiting, but now I didn’t want to leave the exhibit before I absolutely had to. In the same way it felt important to cherish my life, having been given a second chance, it felt important to cherish the butterflies’ lives.

  I was mesmerized by the emergence case—a big, enclosed glass display of butterfly chrysalides waiting to become beautiful, winged adults. Dozens of chrysalides, separated by species, were pinned to boards through a tuft of silk on the tip of the chrysalis. I identified with this stage of the butterfly’s lifecycle. I’d emerged fatigued from my own cocoon—the hospital—and, like a butterfly, had found myself unable to fly right away; I had to wait until I got stronger.

  Turning around to see the flittering adult butterflies, I realized I’d completely transformed since my hemorrhage happened. This didn’t mean my recovery was over, or that I’d ever have the same capacities I once did again. It meant I was a different person. I wasn’t running through life anymore. I was cherishing my surroundings and my family in a more complete way. And I finally had my life’s purpose in front of me.

  “Mom, look, a Blue Morpho!” Jay said. “Their wings are dark on the outside, so they’re hard to spot if they aren’t flying.”

  “Wow!” I said. “What a beautiful butterfly. Make a wish!”

  I made mine: Let me always strive for happiness.

  I was over materialistic things and wasting my time on things that don’t matter. I just wanted to have a peaceful, happy life and enjoy each moment.

  As we exited the exhibit I thought back to the blog I’d written for The Garden Hale.

  HAPPINESS

  After searching and seeking for something that can give me purpose in life, it’s so overwhelming to understand and know exactly what it is.

  What is the purpose of life? What is the meaning? Why am I here?

  Lots of people get into the same habits and follow others in being the same way, doing the same things, and talking in a similar manner. But each one of us is individual and we all have our own purpose and being.

  What’s yours?

  I know that I’m a creative person that loves being outside in nature. I love painting and cooking. But the lifestyle I was leading left me no time at all to pursue these early loves of mine. This part of my personality gave me happiness and I somehow lost touch with this along the way.

  But the good thing is, I’ve now regained touch and am indulging myself every day in the things I enjoy! I believe the purpose of life is to find ultimate happiness, and once you realize this, it’s an amazing feeling.

  I absolutely love the days when I sketch and paint; these days are much more often than ever before. I love my trips cycling around my hometown or on holiday; I get such a sense of freedom. I also love spending quality time with my family, especially my children—this makes me so happy.

  I’m very grat
eful for what I have. Gratitude keeps me content and anything else is a lovely surprise bonus. Most of all, I always make a point of saying “thank you” or adding a silly happy emoji to the end of messages and emails. I want to make people’s days, make them smile; this makes me smile.

  You can really enjoy your life if you are content with who you are and do the things that make you happy. A happy you makes for a happy family and life.

  Rajni said we had to eat at First Lady Michelle Obama’s favorite Mexican restaurant in DC—Oyamel Cocina Mexicana. When we entered the restaurant, I was shocked to see butterfly mobiles and pretty glass windows set against walls painted with hundreds of bright, multicolored butterflies.

  Change and transformation.

  I was going through deep, transformative change. And the more I slowed down to take in the world around me, the more I saw signs and symbols and experienced coincidences that I knew were meant to help me along the way.

  Even the word “Oyamel,” the name of the restaurant, held symbolism, I learned at lunch. Monarch butterflies migrate to and spend the winter in the Oyamel fir tree forests in the highlands of Mexico.

  I finally felt like I’d passed through the winter of my recovery. I might not be the same as I had been before in some ways, but I was better in others. I understood that my body had its own intelligence and timing, and that slowing down had helped me to take in the richness of life around me.

  My illness had proven to be a life course correction. Without it, I wouldn’t know my purpose or be back doing the things I loved, the things that made me happy. I now knew my purpose was to simply be happy and help others.

  Epilogue

  When I came down with meningitis before my last operation and couldn’t manage to turn the corner, I didn’t know what I wanted anymore, I was so weak from all that had happened to me. I was at the precipice between life and death once again, and delirious when Swami Ji insisted we take a walk.