Losing Weight

I am a young adult, just out of my teens, and have always been a little bit chubby. I am not really sure how it started out - it was probably just baby fat that never went away, potentially because I always ate too much. Maybe it was my parents fault, maybe it was just unlucky. The point is, I never managed to shed massive amounts of weight until I was in my early teens and doing swimming training intensively twice a week, swimming maybe 1.5 km in each session.  (It was great, I actually had abs at this point!) That lasted just over year and having moved countries a few times since then, gone through the death of my father, been bullied at school and having my heart broken in the most spectacular of fashions, I have since put on a lot of fat.

I have now decided that I don't want to spend the rest of my life overweight. I am about 88 kg and a height of 5' 7", making my BMI go well into overweight range, potentially even bordering on obese. To be fair, I think I have quite a big frame and heavy bone and so some of my weight is due to the amount of bone I have. Doctors are never too worried that I'm obese because I don't quite look it, but I am definitely not the healthiest cookie on the planet. Also just a note, I don't have all that much muscle either, so yes, a lot of my 88 kg will come from fat.

My point is, I have made the decision to not want to live unhealthily. I don't want to get married fat. I don't pictures where I can't look at myself. I don't want to have this constant feeling of not being comfortable in my own skin. I don't want to have this massive belly  which I feel self conscious about when a guy tries to hold me.

I choose NOT to be overweight, and so I am choosing a healthier lifestyle.



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All this said and done, losing a weight is going to be a battle. It will be hard and I will lose faith.  It's already happened - I started weight watchers about a month ago and already this last week I just stopped counting points and ate whatever the heck I wanted. My bad eating habits tend to go hand in hand with stress.

Wish me luck!

Syrian Chemical Weapons

With news coming out that Syria may have chemical weaponry, I must admit that initially, I came to question whether the reports were true or if this was yet another farce by the British and American governments to get involved in the Middle East again.

Why they would want to do that, I don't know, especially given that the Obama administration has gone through so much trouble to pull their troops out of combat in Iraq.

I am eating my words currently though - as time goes on, it seems there is more and more evidence of the use of chemical weapons. But here's to me hoping that the UK and US do not get involved in this one.

One of the greatest renditions of classical music ever performed

.. has to be THIS legendary piece - Brahms' 1st piano concerto, being performed by Krystian Zimerman and conducted by Leonard Bernstein.

Yes, it's almost 55 minutes long in length, but if you could listen to it while you were working or something it would be great.

What you'll find is that it has some jaw dropping moments that you can't help but wonder if it is actually one single human being playing the piano. The orchestral and piano mixture is just divine and it's even harder to imagine that Johannes Brahms only wrote this pieces when he was 25!

Zimerman's accuracy is just mind boggling - I have yet to hear a recording of this piece which is played with such precision. To me, this is the only recording that exists of this piece that I will be listening to. (Obviously people are very much entitled to disagree).

This is one of the longer interpretations of the work, with the standard length amounting to between 40 and 50 minutes. Though much controversy has surrounded this work's length, especially as the infamous Glenn Gould-Leonard Bernstein interpretation was much critisized and yet was only 53 minutes long.

It is so beautiful. If only I could see these two performing live!

Reasons why Sebastian Vettel is one of the biggest morons in sport..

1. He's an arrogant twat.
(I mean, did you see that hideous face after the Malaysian Grand Prix? The man couldn't find a single fuck to give.)

2. He never listens to his team engineers.
Even though it's quite clear he needs to go easy on the tyres. And he's already 12 seconds into the lead. But Noooo, Good ol' Seb feels the need to keep at it (Case in Point, the Bahrain F1). Why? Because he's a moron.

3. He is a terrible team mate.
(Again, let's go back to the Malaysian Grand Prix... The man couldn't find a single fuck to give.)

4. He thinks he deserves to win every race.
Uh hello, NO YOU DO NOT. Let's go back to Malaysia - that was not your race to win.

5. He's self righteous.
Let's see... Admitting that you would disobey team orders again, anyone?

6. He has terrible hair cuts.
You'd think he'd be able to do something with those beautiful German locks of him.. but No, he can't.

7. He says "Obfioussly" so god damn often.

8. That weird finger thing when he wins a race.
I mean, look at it.... He might as well be saying "Fuck You" and put up his middle finger. HE DOES IT EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. WHY?!

In conclusion, I really do hope that Red Bull gives him wings, so he flies into a barrier and gets some sense and humility knocked into him. Because really, I think he's gotten all the attention he needs in one life time. Let's just hope the guy grows up, and does it really damn fast.

P.S. I am very, very disappointed in Chris Horner (Red Bull Team Principal) and his total acceptance of Vettel's bullshit. He should be condemning this kind of behaviour left, right and centre, not then deciding that Red Bull are going to give "less team orders" because he's a pussy.

P.P.S The title of THIS WEBSITE makes me lol. Just a little.

P.P.P.S I would like to note that I do not usually condone bullying, even when it comes to figures who are in the public eye because I think it's harsh. Sebastian Vettel, however, has out done himself in how arrogant he comes across and I am just so disappointed in Red Bull right now. For this reason, I feel it my duty to let people know why S.V. Is a moron.

The Telegraph is even more stupid than the Bahraini government...

The Telegraph's article posted today regarding "F1 boss Bernie Ecclestone says Bahrain government is 'stupid' to race" only further emphasises how little Western media really know about... well, anything, really.

Firstly, Bernie Ecclestone may be a sarcastic, tongue-in-sheek, money obsessed moron but he's not stupid. He isn't going to bite the hand that feeds him. Especially if it's a £26 million F1 hand.

Secondly, when asked if Syria ever had a circuit in Damascus, would he be persuaded to take a grand prix there? Bernie Ecclestone came up with the best response: “We’ll have to take a look and see”.Of course, the political unrest in Bahrain is heart wrenching and the country is hurting. However, please - let's not do the Syrians a disservice by comparing the atrocities occurring there on a daily basis with Bahrain.Now, Dan Roan (The BBC reporter who asked this question) must obviously must be some tree-hugging, sensationalist idiot if he feels this is the case.

Thirdly, anyone who has lived on the island country of Bahrain will have to admit there are "protests" going taking place on a nearly daily basis. The fact of the matter is that more often than not, the reports  in Western media of these "protests" are grossly exaggerated to give more publicity than is probably warranted of a group of 20 youths and vigilantes setting fire to tyres on a muddy side road.

Dear Dada...

Dear Dada,
There are many days when I cease to see why you left, or the manner in which you left. There were, there still are so many questions I have to ask you. I should have asked you when I Could, but I didn't because I didn't know how.

Where are you now? Are you happy? Are you being looked after?
You do not know what I would give to spend another day of last summer with you again, to just get to know you again. Sometimes I feel like hitting my head against the wall, sometimes I just want to pull my hair and scream, sometimes I just want to cry. But then I try to remember how that would make you feel. It doesn't really matter anymore. I don't know what to think of you Dada. You fought for 3 and a half years, I told you. I begged you to tell me what was going on. Remember?
I said "Dada, if you need anything or if you are not feeling well, please please tell me. I should know, don't keep me worried."

Funny thing is just 10 days before you left here, I was crying outside of Chilies because one of the girls in my class lost her father in a car accident. And I felt sorry for her, I could empathise. And I cried because I knew that somedays you were so close to leaving as well, and I was always scared that I was going to loose you to the man-eating disease. I was always scared. Just never knew it. I cried a lot Dada. But what is funny is that I didnt even know you were in hospital. I had not a clue, and yet I still cried because I was scared.
Maybe in my heart I knew something was wrong. They say that children are always connected to their parents, so maybe i just knew. No one told me Dada, I had not a clue.

And then I came to visit you in India. And I saw you the first time in the ICU, I couldn't help crying my eyes out - I had never seen you so frail in your 4 years of illness. It was one of the hardest things for me. And then I went home and I cried for hours Dada. For hours and hours, I almost couldn't stop.
Everyone was saying "Its okay, he will be fine" And i believed that too. But then why was I crying?

Then Remember, the Saturday? You asked your mum to send me to the Intensive Care Unit as soon as possible to see you. I saw you at 1pm. And it was hard not keeping the tears in. But I managed. And you held my hand, you held it so tight, as if you would never let go. I can feel it even now. Despite your fragile state you held my hand. I recall telling you something silly about my cat to try and make you laugh, but I knew you wouldn't laugh because you were so weak. And you just smiled vaguely, not being able to laugh.
Even then, Dada, even in your last moments, you were so concerned about everyone esle. You asked about Preethi, you asked about Grandad. I wanted to make you laugh. I couldnt. I wanted to bring you your Ipod so you could listen to it, and think of me. I wanted to bring you your favourite, Tang fruit Juice.
And then you said: "Pat, I can't walk. I can't walk anymore Pat."
And I replied: "It's okay Dada. Your body is a little weak now, but you will be fine in a week or so when you are out of the ICU okay?"
And you just nodded. You didn't believe me.
Then you told me to go, because otherwise the nurses would urge me to leave. I wasn't even supposed to be in the ICU but the Security Guard let me through just because you told him to let me go through.

And then I said: "Ill see you in the evening okay?" And kissed you forehead, and your hand. And let go.
And i said "I love you Dada. I love you." And I turned my back on you and walked out of the ICU, tears falling, on the verge of passing out. Preethi was outside that time you know that? Or i think it was preethi. And I cried a little more but I didn't want Grandma and Grandad to see, so I stopped.

Later on that evening, just before visiting time, you were on the respiratory. Preethi was crying her head off, and I didn't know why. The doctors said that it was just a precautionary measure. Little did I know that the Doctor had said a couple of weeks ago that "If your husband goes on respiratory, you can expect him to die."

I came to see you by the way at that time. Don't think you were alone. Because you weren't. You never were. We were always there, even your brother and sister. They never left, and I didn't except to go home and sleep. I saw you with the mask all over your face, and your hands were tied up to the bed. How cruel. As though you were some animal. You were tossing and turning and desperately trying to get it off you I think. Your sister and preethi were there. Both of them, head against the glass window of the ICU, tears pouring down their cheeks.
At the same time, you had the dialysis machine's long, pointed needle attached to your arm, and you look distraught. It was the day before you left. Remember. The Saturday? The last time I saw you alive.

Is that when you gave up? Is that when you decided it was all over, and that you couldn't face it anymore Dada? Why did you leave Dada? Was it too much? Why didn't you tell me how you felt?

One thing I want you to know is that I will always love you. No matter what fights I have with your family, your wife or no matter who marries Ma. You were my dad. You are my dad. You will always be my one, and my only, Dada.
I love you Dada.

Love, Pat.

For some reason I decided to go on the "Kidney Disease, Dialysis, and Transplant" group on facebook.

I haven't been on there for a while. It's mainly a support group for the people going under dialysis treatment or transplants and their families. There are a lot of caring and up beat messages wishing everyone well. It's actually quite sweet.

I was reading about Hemodialysis patients and their side effects when suddenly I got taken back to images of my father coming back from his dialysis sessions - each time was slightly different. It's worth remembering that he had dialysis in the hospital every other day - so averaging 3.5 times a week for over 3 years.

Some days he would come back and he would be in an elated mood - upbeat, happy, full of hope. This was usually the days when he felt like he knew he would get better and everything would be okay.

Other days he would come back and just feel physically terrible, shouting in pain. He would have cramps all night because of the loss of fluids or he would be itchy all night - and it wasn't just a bit of a scratch, it was a proper sensation that occurs under the skin. There was nothing you could do about it, except scratch his back or his arm to provide him some relief. Sometimes it would be so bad that he would make himself bleed with how violently he was scratching himself.
It was hard to watch.

However, there were days he came back quiet. Now those days were the worst.
He would come back and be very quiet and pensive. If you asked him what was wrong or how he was he would have very little to say.  For a long time I wondered why that was the case. Why would he come back feeling terrible some days? Over the course of the several weeks that I spent with him in the Summer of 2007 it became more evident that there was generally always a reason why he was that way.
Although he wouldn't say anything immediately, slowly through the day he might casually slip something into conversation about how something might have happened in the hospital. I can clearly remembering that one day he came back and didn't really say much all day. He just spent the day watching TV. Eventually, as I was sitting next to him, he said to me "Pat, there was a young boy who used to come to dialysis. I used to see him at least once every week - you know his parents are not very well off. They can just about read but that was it. This boy was on the list for a transplant and he's been waiting for years. But today, he didn't come to dialysis."

I asked him "Why not? What happened? Did he finally get the transplant?"

He replied: "No, he didn't get the transplant. He was 12 years old. He died last weekend from multiple organ failure."

All I could say was "Aw Dada, I'm so sorry. You know that won't happen to you - you'll be fine!"

He then said "But it's just not fair. He was so young, why him? It could be next, who knows?"

As time went on, I realised that all the people he had constantly been having dialysis with for the past three years were slowly disappearing - some disappeared because they had finally gotten the transplant they needed. But most disappeared because they couldn't win the battle and their bodies gave up. People dropped like flies and he had watched it happen time and time again with one patient after another for three years. He was the only one who stuck around - he must have been wondering when he would be next.


It's only really as I got older that I understood how he must have been feeling. Feeling alone. Not knowing what would happen. 

What is Happening to the World?

I'm mad. Angry. I want to hurt someone, even myself right now.

Well you know what. Don't be nice, people. Because being nice gets you no where.

No where.

The only thing you get from being nice, or considerate is hurt. A whole bucket load. No. Truck load.
I try to be caring towards my friends, they get the wrong idea, turn on me, and I land face down in shit. I try to be considerate towards my friends and those whom I love, because I dont want them to go through any bad feeling, and I dont want them to get stressed -and I get a mountain of sound waves pumped through my ears all day about their problems, how hard their life is, how much this boy broke their heart, how bad they did on their mock exam, Blah fucking blah.

You know what? Why dont I just be a mega bitch. Maybe then Ill get things done. Maybe then I might have some peace.

okay. Rant over.
But being nice, its a bitch. And I hate it. 

An Unconcievable Truth xP

Seeing him just lie there with closed eyes, mouth slightly parted as though we was about to smile, head tilted to the side, was the most disconcerting sight that I had seen. It was as though he was sleeping. 

There was a large tube going down his mouth. It was only later I realised that it was the intubation tube that was keeping him breathing, but wholly artificially. He was gone. The IV to his arm was still attached.

Through the corners of his eyes that had been taped shut lay little tears, just about to fall.

The nurse has specifically told me not to make a noise, there were others around the unit, but I didn't care. What did it matter? I had lost something I could never find again, I had lost what I fought so hard to keep, I had lost something that was a part of me.

I took his limp hand, his hand that was so similar to my own, almost identical.  My own body shaking, I kissed him goodbye. I didn't want to leave. I promised him I would stay put at least until he got better. I promised. And I was going to keep my promise - though he had not kept his.

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School was starting again in two days, Mum wanted me to come home. Ofcourse she did - it was for my best. School is always important - this time though, it didn't take priority. My intuition pressed me to stay there, and not leave - Not for a while atleast. I begged and pleaded and screamed at my mother to allow me to stay a few more days and explained that school was insignificant. Consequently, she talked to my cousin (a doctor), coming to the conclusion that it was best for me to stay put until the time was right .As it turned out... if I hadnt stayed I may have regretted it for the rest of my life.

I made a promise and I wasn't going to leave, not for school, not for my friends, not for the world. I wanted to be there for him. I wouldn't leave, not now. I knew that my presence meant a lot to him - he wanted me there. I say this with no vanity, it is simply a fact.

I promised to stay in India until my father got out of hospital. And eventually; he did get out of hospital. As a matter of fact, only two days later he left the hospital . And he left, dead.

Something feels wrong.. Chapter 4

So, Im in India, back home. And jeeeesaaas; its weird. I dont know, there was a huge mixture of feelings completely. So, before coming on the plane, I was nervous, and I really didnt want to come back. Then in the aircraft, I started crying, and I felt like a prat, but I was so scared of seeing my family again- I just didnt want to see them sad you know?

But then I arrived in my small Indian home town, saw all my family. And it was actually fun, because all the family is back, including my 5 year old cousin, there was so much to keep me busy, that I wasnt feeling all that bad. Actually I was happy being back. Being with my family made me feel closer to Dada, and that was a great feeling.

But then, today... It was completely hit me. Not having Dada around the house any more just made me feel empty. There is so much noise in the house, but yet, its so quiet... no one can fill the space that my Dad was in. I mean, he was just such a powering figure, and towards the end he always kept everyone in the house busy, because he needed constant attention due to his illness.

The weird thing is, we all laugh a lot. A lot more than we used to.  But I think thats just to fill the sadness. And then after laughing and talking for ages there is always this killing silence and none of say anything because we know that the other is thinking about him. He loved laughing, he loved life, and now I guess we all have regrets.

One of my biggest regrets is that we never had the time that we deserved. As father and daughter we never got a proper chance together, which we should have. We were just beginning to get close last summer, and we never got another time where we could be the same. And I remember the night before I was leaving, last summer, he cried. He cried a lot, because he didnt know how he would be the same. And that no one would look after him like I did. It breaks my heart to think of it now.

There will always be this emptiness inside of me. Always. A large hole that eventually will start filling up with other people and things, but there will always be this small part of my soul which is going to be empty. Inside me, is an emptiness that will never fade.

Face the pain, to leave the sorrow. Chapter 3

I read a book a couple of weeks ago, cant remember the name now. It was a story of a family(this lady who was middle aged) who had lost recently her mother, to alzeimers and her brother was proclaimed dead many years ago to autism. Eventually the family found that the brother wasnt actually dead, just in hiding to ensure that nobody in the community knew that the brother could not support himself. He was simply hiding, for his own good. I sometimes wish that was the case for Dada.

How so many people can depend upon one, single, seeminlgy insignificant thing, I do not know. The centrafugal force of a circle, the nucleas of a cell, the heart of a man - all can be so small, but yet so vital. How? Dada was the back bone of my family - a loving son to his parents, a protective brother to his siblings and a caring father to his daughter. As a husband, he may not have been a role model, but his ability to love and concern for his family was always sincere.

People always say that kindness in your current life will bring you a more prosperous future to come - it forms some of the basic principles of Hinduism, Sikhism and Buddhism. A man reaps what he sows, right?No, wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. If that was the case, my family would be the happiest people alive, but instead they are now faced with the deepest sorrows one should face.

Im going to India again in a couple of days, and the thought of having to see my family again and seeing the room where my dad's dead body lay before they took him to be creamted, makes me shudder a million times over. I dont want to have to see his bedroom without him in it, it will be too painful. But sometimes you have to face the pain, to get over the sorrow.

The Very Last Time - Chapter 2

I couldn't sleep tonight, and when trying to get myself to sleep, I started crying, yet again. There are these times every so often where I just cry myself dry, until there are no more tears left to cry. Better to get it out than keeping it in, but what if you cant get all your feelings out?

So Ive decided to write this, since I don't get sleepy until about 3 am, and its just about 1am now.

Tonight, this pit in my stomach wouldn't go away. I knew that I had to go visit my Dad's family some time, but I was hoping it wouldn't be any time this summer. To have to see my family's house in India, without my dad lying on his bed watching TV with all his belongings spread all over the bed ... well, just thinking about it makes me tear.

For the past three and half years (almost 4 this September) my dad spent his time in that house, not being able to leave, not being able to eat, not being able to do anything he wanted. He became a part of that house, and quite frankly, that house is nothing to me without him.

I kept remembering the last time I spoke to him. Saturday, 19th January 2008. I was the last person to speak to him, from the family any way. I felt honored, proud, that he spoke to me last. But I keep remembering his shaking hands holding mine saying "Darling, I cant walk anymore. Im weak" and I kept replying "Its okay Dada, you will be fine, just another week or so and you will be out, and Ill be waiting for you."

I didn't know what else to say to him. What else could you say to the once strongest person you knew who was bed ridden and being fed with a drip? Anyway, it was an improvement from the night before, where all I did when I saw him was cry.
I cried and cried.
And unfortunately, I still keep doing that. And I don't really see any end to it...

At one point, I thought I had cried so much, that my eyes were a desert, with no more water, no more tears.
Im going to try and go to sleep but now, I feel like, the tears wont stop. God, please stop flooding my eyes. If you are listening, stop doing this to me - does anyone deserve this?

God, please stop. I beg you.

Saturday, 18th January, 2008

On the evening of Saturday the 18th of January, 2008, I was walking out of the Intensive Care Unit, getting shouted at by my Grandfather. It was getting dark outside. I was exhausted. I hadn't slept all night on the flight. I had just seen someone I love in pain.

I was in tears, and he was scoffing at me "What do you think he will feel like EH? If he sees you cry? Now you are just going make him feel worse. Pull yourself together stupid girl. How do you think he will feel?"he spat. He just shaking his head at me with narrowed eyes, disgusted at what I had just done.

I tried to pull myself together. But wasn't really succeeding. I walked through the corridor of the ICU, looking at my Dad for the last time that day and put on my shoes. My dusty shoes that had walked through the rain washed mud that bordered the main hospital building.  Walking up the two levels of rickety stairs, I seemed to be on auto pilot, hysterical to some extent. I tried to calm down, and various relatives were patting me on the back. I held onto the tears in front of my Grandmother, who was already going crazy with concern for her eldest son. My aunt and uncle came upto me, both giving me a big hug, and we decided that it was best that I went home -  they did not want me to stay in the hospital which was beginning to seem like an oasis for filth and muck and dirt and death and disease.

Picking up my phone in the room upstairs, there was no signal. Damn. I went to stand by the window - One bar of signal. Thank the Gods. I called my mum but could not help but burst into tears again, staring out of the window. She could not understand a word of what I was saying, "What? I cant understand you darling, calm down for a second. Please."

I cried and cried and cried. I cried down the stairs, and I cried all the way home in our 45 minute car ride home. I cried when I got home. In my Mum's parents' house, my Grandmama saw me in tears. I think it was the first time that she had seen me in real tears, and it was the first time we had a "moment" of our own. She gave me a huge hug, and told me it would be okay, and explained that he just looked tired because of the surgery, and that he was getting healthier each day. Oh, how I wanted that to be the case, how I prayed it would be the truth.

Around 8.30pm, I was talking to my mum, yet again, on Skype, telling her that I could believe the state that he was in, explaining that I had actually cried in front of dad in the hospital.

I know how much it kills him to see me cry, but I still did, and I could not do anything but cry when I saw him.
 He was upset, I knew it.
 But he never shed a tear. Never.

He was always like that, emotions all sewed up like a stitched up turkey on Thanksgiving. When I was talking to Dad, I couldn't think of anything to say, he just looked terrible - far worse than I had ever seen him. I didnt even get the chance to show him my braces or tell him about the outrageous things we had seen and done in Nepal the previous month.

My mum told me to calm down, to stop crying, but I couldn't. I think thats the longest that I have ever cried at once. And I had no clue why I was crying though, everyone said Dad was fine, even he did. But seeing him, he just looked terrible.
And I wasnt there to help him through it.
The killer was crying in front of him.

My mum was worried. Concern pouring through her voice, and no one could help me. I cried my self to sleep, with my grandma next to me, and my Mum worried, concerned about what was to happen. It was a disturbed sleep.
Could things be worse? I felt like a pot of shit.

But it was only the 18th of January, 2008. Who knew the downward spiral had not even began yet.

Back to blogging once more.

I’ve decided to start blogging once more. I haven’t blogged for years but it’s 2013 – who bothers to write diaries anymore? People BLOG instead as a way of ‘expressing themselves’ and ‘voicing their opinion’ and ‘opening up to the world’.

Studying at one of the top universities in the world has not been easy. It was something that I had dreamed about for years but thought was completely out of my reach. I worked hard in my final years of school and I suppose it paid off: I was accepted in to one of the world’s best universities and it was one of the happiest days of my life.

I thought: This is it.  I thought: here is the world saying “Hey K, you’ve been through a lot, here’s an offer to make up for all that”. I thought: the rest of my life was set.

I was wrong. 

Boy, was I wrong.