Its been a while, hasn't it? But honestly, I just couldn't think of anything to write about. But now my short vacation has given me something to share with you and a lot to fear about.

I am home. For now, home is wherever my parents are. And now they're in Muscat, the city where I spent most of my childhood. I'm glad to be back home - glad to be doing nothing, glad to be with my parents, glad to be a lot of things. Except for one, small hitch. The thing is, its Durga Puja time and then there's no escaping each and every single member of the Bong samaj. Bongs I know, Bongs I don't know and the Bongs I don't want to know ' they're all here. The third category is the one who don't know me, but they claim to know of me (it's been a while since I left home) and also claim to have heard a lot about me (ouch, no one knows how good or bad that is).

With me inching towards quarter life, the favorite topic is almost always that of marriage. And there are some aunties who try and act painfully friendly, with a nudge that almost qualifies as physical abuse and ask "So, seeing anyone?" I am always warned by my Mom to keep my sarcasm in control when these blood boiling questions are thrown at the Schumacher speed. Especially, after this one certain incident when I was asked the same question by an aunty who looked like an avatar of Ma Kaali you know the typical wavy long hair, all open and left almost in the way that nature had meant for it to be, a huge red bindi on which I swear I can serve my niece some rice and a sizeable piece of fish, sindoor that looks like a poster from Khoon Bhari Maang, the customary white and red bangles ' Shakha Paula which I notice have made a dramatic comeback after Kasauti Zindagi Ki ' basically full on Bong gear. The sight of these women makes my Dad flinch, especially when they run up to him and start with "Dadaaaaaa .". My mom has always dealt with them better I feel, mostly by smiling and making conversation dominated by monosyllables. Anyway, so this lady, visibly tormented at my singlehood, exclaims "Oh babaaaa why are you single steeeel? You should go beyond cruuaashes." My last crush, by the way, was Pete Sampras ' and that was a lifetime back.

I look at my dad for help, he just turns away and walks to the water cooler. Strange, because his glass of water is still full. I turn to look again at Ma Kaali, Kalkatteywali as she continues.

"So mainy nice boys eyround. Peek one." Yeah, like they're all waiting just for me as though it's a swayamvar in session. "Just make sure you peek a Bengali boy from a kaalchaared fameely" Now my mom turns to look at me in complete horror, since she knows my general history of always falling for anyone but bengali men. So she says "Yes, but these days children are so much in to this Cosmo cultural thing I keep telling her that as long as the boy she chooses is good, everything else comes later".

Kaali Ma now takes the Chandi avatar, bewildered at my Mom's statement. "Oh no, KrishnaDi, it's so berry eemportaint for them to choose a Bengali boy. You know all these aather people are so diffaraint. What is wrong with good Bengali boys" Nothing really, I think with a shrug, except that I don't seem to find any that I like. No offence, my many Bong friends ' I mean like enough to get married to.

After ten minutes of good Bengali boy conversation, I can't help but crack at least one classic PJ. So I say to her, "Kakima, I think Ma and Bapi are just happy that I'm still falling for men and not women." She looks at me partly confused, partly dazed and completely baffled. I guess she doesn't know about homosexuality yet. [Strange, these Ekta Kappoor serial watching women aren't up to date with all these fundas along with clothes and jewelry. I always thought Anuraag Basu having a thing for that Bajaj guy will make an interesting kahani mein twist.] Anyway, maybe this lady thinks lesbians are just people from a country called Lesbia. I think she'll pass out if she ever finds out that our bus driver, the same guy who now drives her kid to school everyday is gay. Anyway, someone calls my name and I go there to be a victim to another conversation tragedy.

The caste system issue in our country, I think, is most prevalent in the case of marriage.

I wonder if it is as important for us to marry someone from the same caste/community, than it is to marry someone with who we can spend the rest of our lives - happily. Of course, I totally understand the fact that a common culture helps you gel in better in a new relationship. But I think that's true in the case of arranged marriages. However, if two people, both adults and quite in love, have decided to spend their lives with each other, I wonder how much sense it makes to try and tempt them into an arranged marriage where everything from the culture, traditions and horoscopes are matched. I mean, how many couples care, after having been together for a while if the Rahu and Ketu are aligned when they tie the knot? I cannot imagine any of my committed friends breaking up on grounds of being from the same Gothra. Which world we living in? I think people should just be glad that their kids don't want to marry their neighbor's pets!

I've learnt a lot from my uncle, whose words are followed like the gospel by my parents. Amidst raised eyebrows and hushed whispers, his daughter got married to her Muslim boyfriend of many years ' with complete parental support. Just after the wedding, when we were still dealing with all the "Oh really? But how will she manage?" and "Is it really what we hear?" my uncle told me while driving me to the bus stop; "Choose wisely, it's your life. Me, your Dad, your Mum; none of us will be around forever. Its ok for everyone to be a bit upset now than for you to regret this decision all your life." Though I've not had very soul stirring conversations with my uncle, but for some reason, these words keep coming back to me.

I'm not seeing anyone now. Happily single. And give my erratic work schedule; it might stay that way for a while. I know my parents will be elated if I find a bong guy, but I have other issues to handle. I'll be walking into an unknown family; compelling them, in a way, to accept me into their family and forcing myself to attach myself to a string of new found relationships. I'd rather know my husband's views on child labour, swinging, adoption or other un-astrological subjects that will matter to both of us at a later stage in life than sit and count how many of our gunas match. Or worry about which of our mothertongues our kids will be taught to speak.

I am not very sure about what marriage means to me yet. Maybe it's a promise, or a commitment, or just an adjustment. But I'd like to think of it as two people, who are fond of each other, trying to come together to start a journey where they discover, accept and complement each other's strengths and weaknesses. Two people who become the pillars of strength for their parents to age peacefully, devoted parents for their kids to become fearless, honest and caring individuals, loyal friends who stick by siblings in case they need friends. First there was one, now there will be two. I'm not sure if I can express what I'm trying to say, but that's how I see marriage at this stage of my life. Coming together of ideals, dreams, aspirations, virtues and principles. Not necessarily of language or castes.  

 Over the last few days, I've been getting a lot of emails ' mostly "I wants to be frands" or "Hello, where is other half of foto?" types. While I was grunting away for peace and abusing Rediff.com, I realized the fault was entirely mine. There is an option that says "Allow everyone to send me mails" and that's exactly what I had enabled. Ouch anyway, since my normally alive common sense has reared its head from its hibernation period, I have disabled that and am now at peace. I love you again rediff.com.

Amidst those mails, there were a few which when distilled into one email voicing the same concern would read as this:

"Hello, I like your subjects. I understand Culture ' India is very cultural. I understand Movies - I like also and also I like Compassion that you show with children but why Fatigue? I mean, why you want to write about tiredness. I finding it very exciting why it interests you so much that you writing a blog on it. Are you very lazy and like sleeping whole day in front of TV?"

Hence, this post on Compassion Fatigue.

It is actually something that most of us live with in the present day. It happens every time when we see a beggar with an unfed skeleton of a child and turn away like we saw nothing out of the usual, when we stop cringing at the state of Somalian kids, when Darfur could be happening in our backyards and we wouldn't care less, when we read about another blast in the middle east and say, "Oh, man again?!". When we stop feeling, in this case, it's called Compassion Fatigue.

Compassion fatigue is the burnout experienced by constant viewing of tragedy. It is, as defined by Wikipedia, "a term that refers to a gradual lessening of compassion over time. Compassion fatigue may occur when, due to the media saturation of stories and images of people who are suffering (e.g. images of starving children in Africa) people develop a resistance to these images. As the emotional impact of these messages lessens, their willingness to give reduces"

Much can be attributed to the media for the birth of Compassion Fatigue. In the battle for who telecasts the breaking news first, images of the grief-stricken are repeated over and over again. In the quest for TRPs, all is forgotten ' the state of victims, the impact on the viewer, the effect on the anguished - everything. Victims are questioned and probed, sometimes till they break down and choke on their tears. Grief sells, you see. As doesn't any kind of tragedy. And in this rat-race of emotionless emotion, basic human emotion is killed. Murdered repeatedly. Slain without mercy. But who cares? The journalists need their bread and butter. They need their perks and promotions. They've long buried their once young dreams of voicing the truth in the media jungle of ruthless moguls, waiting to pounce on a piece of news and tear it apart, till TRPs soar and the conscience sinks, weeping silently for the death of empathy.

Yeah, I'm back to my favourite topic - kids. My life would be a lot less fun without the presence of certain children, who very often drive me up the wall and make me curse my very purpose of existence with their sinister crimes; but sometimes these devils manage to knock much more sense into my head than nearly two decades of education have.

My sister has been blessed with two delightful daughters (besides an equally delightful sister, of course) ' Diya and Khushi. I hate the fact that I see them just once a year. When I sat sobbing endlessly before we saw them off at the airport the last time when we were all together, Diya came and said to me "Why are you crying? You can come and see me whenever you want to." To which I replied "No, baby; I wish I could but I can't. I have a job, a boss, too many clients and far less holidays." Diya looked at me blankly and said what she genuinely thought was the most obvious solution to an insignificant issue like the demands of a job. "But you want to see us (pointing to her little sister, who was oblivious to who's crying, laughing or dying as long as she gets to play with her dancing doll), and if you don't you will cry and be sad. And you love us more than those people, anyway." Very clearly and simply, she had enlightened me about my own priorities. As both of them resumed their warfare over the doll, I sat thinking about how simply kids think about life. They do what makes them feel happy and we do what we think will make us happy and "secure" (how I hate that word), in the future. So who's being stupid and irrational? The kids who live for the moment; or we, who live for a moment in the future we might not even live to see?

I teach a bunch of kids a few times a week. In return of the hour-long class of music that I take, they rarely miss giving me an education on life. Suyog teaches me that you have to do what you love first and then follow up with other things, like what you must. When I connect the keyboard to start the class, he bangs his little fingers on the keys playing what he thinks is a piece of music comparable only with Mozart or Beethoven, or both. Little Arbaaz teaches me that however difficult Deepa might become at times, if she is patiently explained and hugged endlessly, she will loosen her grip on my hand. Narayan teaches me the virtue of endurance, by singing 'Twinkle Twinkle' as many times as it takes for him to get the words right. Nikhil teaches me that its not necessary to sing only "We shall overcome" or "Hum ko man ki shakti" just because we're in a school; if singing "Piyu Bole" makes us happy, then we should sing it. Firdaus and Archana give me a coy smile and stare at me with starry eyes, trying to imitate the things I do sometimes; as if I'm a celebrity, making me feel very, very special. Balaji makes me feel wanted, even on days that I'm wearing a hideous orange or my hair looks like nature left it that way. When I pack off after a difficult class, Burhan's "You will come tomorrow again, no, Miss, pleeeeeeeeeeease?" makes me want to do it all over again right then.

You might be surprised that my little teachers are special, in fact, very special. While Deepa is profoundly mentally challenged and dependant on someone or the other for every little thing, Nikhil is autistic. Suyog, Archana and Narayan are non-verbal, striving incessantly to turn sounds into something that may sound like words. Adding to this, is the fact that all three live in an orphanage. Balaji, the son of a maidservant and also non-verbal, struggles everyday despite the odds to learn everything from wiping his nose to the lyrics of the prayer song. Burhan has a learning disability, but never gives up on anything. Firdaus and Arbaaz both suffer from Down syndrome.

Wonder how I teach a bunch of mostly non-verbal kids music? You'll be surprised, shocked and heart wrenchingly elated if you see their will to learn. That's the only thing that takes me to Prayatna and keeps me there. All of these wonderful children are mentally challenged, but on humanitarian grounds, they are more than gifted than any of us.

Multiple Personality Disorder has always managed to hold my attention for a longer period of time, as compared to other things (like the gym, logarithms, organic chemistry, inorganic chemistry, any chemistry). Multiple Personality Disorder (or Dissociative Identity Disorder) as we studied in psychology is described as the existence in an individual of two or more distinct identities or ego-states, each with its own pattern of perceiving and interacting with the environment. After much thought, I've come to the conclusion that God suffers from MPD (Uh, yes, I do understand that you are overwhelmed by how unfairly I miss critical acclaim for my thoughts, but (sigh), such is life).

How else would you explain the difference between Christ, Allah and Bhagwan? We are taught from very childhood that God is one, but we realise as we grow older that that is so, so not the case. He has in fact, assumed so many different avatars that his MPD are enough to create havoc and hatred. Once he asks us to eat only halal meat, then his alter ego says to believe in afterlife, once he shuns beef, once he shuns pork and of course, each has been believed to have written a different book (through a man) for believers to follow. Just a small thing that he hadn't foreseen, perhaps, was that people would later choose to fight over than follow them (But that's ok, it might be tough to think of such insane stuff when you're struggling with so many voices inside you).

Anyways, God tells us to love each other. At no point, in any holy book, through any freaking man made religion (as far as my knowledge goes), does he urge us to hate, kill, rape, slaughter, butcher, hurt, damage or massacre. With every person killed goes a dream, goes an aspiration, a hoard of desires and the hope of a peaceful future. With every child blown away by a bomb, goes an ounce of our very instinct of humanity. With every Rwanda, Darfur or Iraq, God mourns his own creation.

Yes, God does suffer from MPD. And man gave it to him.