Essentials of Memoir Writing – Class Blog

The Song in the Cornfield

One song that still brings back memories is a song my cousin used to sing when I was a child.

I must have been eight or nine. My mother had moved to the city after she got married, but she still wanted my sister and me to know country life, to understand our roots, and to stay connected with nature. Every summer, she sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents and relatives. She wanted us to touch the life she had left behind: the fields, the animals, the dust, the heat, the early mornings. She also wanted us to understand, without saying it too directly, how lucky we were to grow up in the city. More than that, those summers taught us gratitude. When we returned home, we were grateful for everything: running water, washing machine, TV, clean clothes, a soft bed, and the simple comfort of city life.

So there we were, two city girls in the middle of village life, trying to help as much as our small hands and thin arms allowed. Every day, there was something to do. One day, we went to collect corn. I remember the dry leaves scratching my skin, the sun pressing down on my head, the air so thick it felt impossible to breathe, and the dust sticking to my legs, my arms, even my eyes. By the end of the day, I was parched and drenched, too tired even to complain properly — and at that age, believe me, complaining was one of my talents.

The hardest thing to bear was drinking warm water after so much work in the field. No matter how carefully they tried to cover the bottle, the water was always hot. Not warm. Hot. The kind of water that made you wonder whether thirst was really that urgent.

At last, we sat down, desperate for water and something to eat. That was when my older cousin, Antoneta, began to sing.

She was sad. Even before I understood the story, I could see that. Her face had that quiet heaviness people carry when they are trying not to cry in front of others. She needed to let her feelings out, and because people in the village did not sit around saying, “I need to process my emotions,” they sang.

She was not singing for us. Not really. She was singing from somewhere deep inside herself. She had recently broken up with someone, a boy she must have loved dearly, and although I was too young to understand heartbreak, I could hear it in her voice. It was the kind of song people passed from one generation to another, yet, new, not written in books, but carried in voices, sung in courtyards and at family gatherings, when feelings had nowhere else to go, so they went into music.

The song was about two lovers breaking up. The voice in the song begged the other person not to suffer, saying, almost painfully, “It is not your fault. I am the one who loved you.” Then came the line that stayed with me: let us bury our love, let us hide it away, let us never tell anyone that we once loved each other.

The words went on, recalling the days when they had met, the happiness, the sweet words, the small gestures, the innocent promises. Then the song turned darker, calling it all a childish game, an accident, something said without understanding its weight. There was regret in every line. At the end, the singer asked that, if they ever met again after the breakup, they could talk about anything in the world, anything except love.

The melody made the words even heavier. Between the lines, the chorus stretched into long sounds, “Ahhh… ohhh…” as if the pain itself needed space to breathe. The last line was repeated again and again, and each repetition made the sorrow deeper. It was not just a song anymore. It felt like someone opening a wound and singing through it.

I did not fully understand the story, but I felt it. That is the strange thing about music. Sometimes it reaches places in you before life has even explained them.

Years later, when I had my own heartbreaks, that song returned to me. It gave shape to feelings I could not name. It helped me cry, and then, slowly, it helped me heal. I still sing it today.

Even as a teacher, during school trips, I sometimes shared that song with my students. I wanted them to see how my generation survived heartbreak: not with playlists called “healing era” or dramatic Instagram stories, but with songs sung from the heart, with dignity, sadness, and a deep need to feel connected to others.

To my surprise, they listened. And by the end of the song, most of them were crying.

That was when I realized that the language of heartbreak does not really age. Emotions travel across generations, even when everything else changes. The clothes change, the phones change, the excuses change, but the ache stays the same.

From 2009 to 2010, I worked full time in hospice nursing. I had been a home health nurse
for 8 years prior to that but switched to an agency that also did hospice nursing. I learned some of the most important lessons about life in that year.
In that year, how a patient handled the stages of grief were varied. According to the Swiss American psychiatrist, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, the five stages of grief are anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. The following are some of the people I helped to take care. I changed the names to protect their privacy.
Emily was 104 years old and was living with her daughter. Her daughter requested that I not mention the word, Hospice, but rather say I was a nurse from “Comfort Care.” Emily stated she did not want to live to be 105 but seemed in denial that she would die soon of old age.
Emily had great musical ability and sometimes would play the piano while I visited. I did my best to keep her comfortable. Despite her denial, she died peacefully with family around her before she turned 105.
Ann was terminally ill with pancreatic cancer. At times family members displayed more
anger than the hospice patients. Ann’s disease advanced to where she had constant
nausea, intermittent vomiting and abdominal pain. The hospice physician ordered a
continuous intra-venous solution of anti-nausea and pain relief medication via a miniature pump. Ann received relief but was sleeping a lot. Her daughter became angry and fumed, “I don’t want my mother hooked up to a pump!” She cancelled Hospice service and Ann was admitted to the hospital for treatment. Ann died within a few days. I hope her family was with her.
Other hospice patients would bargain with God. Some prayed to live long enough to see
their grandchildren or an adult child who had moved away before they died. Others were
solemn, refusing to drink or eat. Their mood was like a blanket of depression and regret.
However, some hospice patients were accepting of their impending death. Andrew related a dream to me that he had often. He described a giant eagle that came and carried him off to heaven where he would see a beloved brother who had died some years ago. He was hopeful to see his brother again, soon.
Another hospice patient, Charley, never seemed angry or depressed. He continued with
daily activities as best he could. One day he had a bad fall that knocked him unconscious. He had expressed prior to the fall, hope, that he would die in his sleep. He never woke up and did die in his sleep. After his death, his wife had a celebration of life ceremony instead of a funeral. Something he had requested from his wife before he went on hospice care. She was brave enough to allow him to die as he had hoped and celebrated his life as he requested despite her grief.
I carry the lessons my patients taught me. They include: We all will die someday, it’s best
to live each day as if it were our last. Living and dying with love and awareness are
priceless, so forgive, forget and move on. If there is something you want to do, go ahead
and do it! Before working in hospice, I would put things off that I wanted to do but after my hospice experience, I have not waited. I cut down to part time and travelled to see family and friends as well as visit interesting places like Bali. I started writing poetry and have had some published in small press magazines. I have tried to make amends with people who have hurt me. I have learned to forgive and give love as much as possible. Life is hard but it is also a gift not to be wasted.
I thank my hospice patients for valuable lessons and the opportunity to serve them. May they rest in peace.

Dena loves music, art craft and has a healing touch and can make many in the family heal. Her life remains the focus of my life and is very much the first topic chosen for my memoir.

It was the year 1990 maybe a month after the birth of my daughter in Mumbai. While I had gone back to Vadodra, my family wife Daisy and parents were all worried about our daughter Delna.  

All along the period of pregnancy we were as a couple getting adjusted to our marriage. We had left Mumbai to pursue a career as owners of a small set up which is named a hospital but is just a single specialty Nursing Home with 9 beds to cater to basic Orthopedic work. While we were having attachments in other larger hospitals our aim was to settle and progress in a relatively less competitive environment where it was possible to pursue a career in an ethical manner without resorting to corrupt practices. The struggle to set up a correct mix between a high class set up and a compromised acceptable set up consumed our life and, in this situation, came the news of Daisy’s pregnancy. My anxiety to fulfill both these roles without much direct family support as for both of us our parents were in distant Mumbai. Those were days of scarcity, and we had no internet or mobile phones. STD calls after 10 pm from public booths were our oly lifeline. Both of us were always talking of having a normal healthy child with no preference for gender.  

Daisy I recollect became fond of milk and in the phase when I was veering to a vegetarian lifestyle. However, let me cut the old details and come to the conversation with Dr. Hema Purandare the Geneticist who was to give final verdict on the genetic report of our Delna.  

We went in a taxi with me holding our Delna in my lap. She was fed but was limp and a bit sleepy. Although we had enough indications to believe Dena had Down’s syndrome I remember saying “I am sure Delna will be fine and she just has chinky eyes maybe inherited from a few generations past aunt”. In my heart I knew I was just trying to cover up and put up a brave face and blanking the reality and the facts staring in our face that our Delna was not normal. After 35 years my memory of the room has faded but the memory of Dr. Hema Purandare who had been my teacher of embryology in Grant Medical College and her words are still there. She gave me the report and addressed us. “Delna has Trisomy 21 which is the term for Down’s Syndrome.” We were shell shocked but I recovered “Is it a mild mosaic pattern or severe full blown Down’s? She is improving and feeding well in the last few days her muscle tone is better than before. Perhaps she will be near normal.” Dr. Purandare started by saying “ We are a center which detects birth defects and she said that these can be very severe or mild but of all the defects Down’s syndrome is the best. Delna will be very happy lovely child and with proper care and early intervention in terms of various therapies will become a joy to behold. She will be able to learn everything needed to live a near normal life. She will be fond of music and you will able to send her to school. While her body tone will be weak she will be able to do physical activity like most children but unlike others all her milestones will be delayed.” What she said lifted my hopes and this was in sharp contrast to the casual manner in which senior Pediatrician Dr. S M Merchant had told the sister in Breach Candy. “O she’s a Mongol” This was told as though Delna was a statistic or a one among the many he had seen. Then he told Daisy “Treat her for jaundice with phototherapy and take her home. After one month come to my clinic with genetic report and I will tell you what to do. There is no active treatment and depending on the need I will send her for various therapies. You will not be able to do much in terms of education. I am going to another clinic please meet me after one month.” 

Coming back to Dr. Purandare Daisy asked. “Will she be able to go to school?” Dr. Hema said many Down’s syndrome children who are given early therapies are able to go to school and get a sound functional education, but they lack the skills to use logic. They become stubborn and illogical especially when faced with unexpected situations and are not well prepared. The way for Delna is to start the therapies and go to school but after say 4^th or 5^th grade they will be unable to cope up with studies especially science math etc. And they will need to go to special schools and undergo vocational training. They are good in arts crafts and love music and Delna will be the loveliest child you can dream off. She can give unconditional love to parents’ family and friends and will give great joy to one and all”. While the manner of speaking was so positive the reality of an uneducable daughter who will need protection and care for life was yet to sink in. We told her about how our pediatrician gave us little hope. She said “ I will give you the number of Dr. Y Amdekar pediatrician and Head of Department of Pediatrics. Go to him and he will not only give correct treatment but guide you to the best resources in Mumbai”. I could see Daisy the more practical among both of us crying, I was leaving the Birth defect center focusing and looking forward to the life and times with our lovely daughter. With a strong heart and a optimistic feeling I sat in the cab with my Delu in my lap. Suddenly, as my eyes looked at the little vulnerable Delu, a dam burst and I was sobbing and the enormity of the news finally sank in. After all the months leading to the day of the final verdict I was clutching at straws and was hoping that all was going to be fine. I realized that this was a defining moment in our lives. For none of us lives would be the same again. Every decision and action will be dictated by Delna and her needs.  

However, I told Daisy “We will never look back with regret and lose heart, as fortunately for Delna she has educated parents with enough financial backing to provide the best for her.” Daisy was consoling me as she realized that after putting up a brave front for so many days she wanted me to release my emotions. At the same time, she resolved to stand together and work hard to give Delna the life she was entitled to.  

About Dr. Hema Purandare, I will never forget her for her words, and it was a classic example of telling the truth and focusing on positives without omitting negatives. Till this day her words ring true and Delu at 35 has grown to be my teacher and spiritual guide. Besides, I call Down’s syndrome a syndrome with a love chromosome. At the same time I will not forget Dr. Merchant for his insensitivity and hurtful words.  

The most abiding memory of my childhood is a visit to the Sabarmati Ashram Light and Sound show on Mahatma Gandhi. In this show there was this lovely Bhajan (devotional song or hymn) which created the backdrop of a life of a saint who has been an indelible childhood memory. While Mahatma Gandhi has been named in India as the Father of the Nation (Bapu), in my childhood he was a history book figure. Our visit to Ahmedabad and Sabarmati Ashram was part of a tour to Rajasthan. My parents were professionals, Dad a lawyer and mum a teacher. However, as children we never realized that to give us a life of comfort they conducted school tours to help increase the family income and create financial stability. These tours were a learning experience. As parents both had instilled in me a sense of pride and respect for our freedom fighters and sense of patriotism. While the Gandhi story was well known the true values of the man and how well they got reflected in the hymn seeped into me when this song was rendered in that night as a teenager. I am not sure who sang the bhajan in that show maybe Lata Mangeshkar or MS Subbalaxmi but the impression remained.

The bhajan was written by poet Narsinh Mehta and describes the true lovers and devotees of God and the conduct of such devotees.

They are the real lovers of God
Who feel others’ sorrow as their own.
When they perform selfless service,
They are humble servants of the Lord.
Respecting all, despising none,
They are pure in thought, word, and deed.
Blessed is the mother of such a child,
And in their eyes the Divine Mother
Shines in every woman they see.
They are always truthful, even-minded,
Never coveting others’ wealth,
Free from all selfish attachments,
Ever in tune with the Holy Name.
Their bodies are like sacred shrines
In which the Lord of Love is seen.
Free from greed, anger, and fear,
These are the real lovers of God.

The melody of this song, the connect with the earth and the atmosphere of the serene yet simple Sabarmati Ashram situated on the banks of the Sabarmati river in Ahmedabad evokes memories of an age gone and values of a man of true love and compassion. In that village like Ashram in the dark night sitting in the makeshift chairs the cold October night, I almost felt the presence of the Mahatma. This hymn was part of his daily prayer session and the sounds of the Charkha, his voice and words and the buzz of a community came alive in these surroundings. The Vaishnavajan bhajan was like the brand signature tune of Sabarmati Ashram.

The empathy evoked for the poorest of the poor and yet the humility in serving their needs was what makes Mahatma Gandhi an inspiration for me from childhood to this day. Purity of thought, respect for all and a special emphasis on women along with total Selflessness in all one’s actions. The beauty of this song and the actual lyrics are on hind sight the basis of a spiritual quest to live a purposeful life. His earthly presence transcended time and space and became an eternal presence.The calming soothing quality of the voices of two great singers of India M S Subbalaxmi and Lata Mangeshkar elevates the lyrics and they penetrate deep into my soul.

Still the memory of Sabarmati Ashram which I revisited recently and that night even though fading was revived last year. Sadly, even though the Ashram remains relatively pure and retains the ethos and feelings of the great soul (Mahatma), the riverfront a modern concrete beautification of the riverfront is sadly not to my liking. The Light and Sound Show has been abandoned as maybe it is not “loud or entertaining enough”. Also, in the land of the Mahatma the ruling elite have dumped his ideals as obsolete and not relevant to today’s times. Music knows no language barriers and I urge readers to listen to this bhajan on youtube and fell the sentiment behind it.

Vispi Jokhi

This is the first rough draft on a song memory. I already have ideas I want to add. I’ll repost later.

I’ll be Loving You Always is a song that brings back considerable memories to me. Almost anytime I was riding in the car with my parents, one or the other of them would start singing that song. I can almost hear them: Daddy’s voice deep and warm, Mom’s voice kind of a mezzo-soprano. I felt secure in their love and permanence of our family. However, not all things are permanent. Or should I say nothing lasts forever. All that is left of the Sunday drives is my memory of that song. The family fell apart not terribly long after those sunny loved filled days. When I was ten, Daddy died of lung cancer. Mom never remarried because nobody could take his place. I think now that the words had a special meaning for them. Years after, my spouse bought me a music box that played the song. I think I can honestly say to him:

I’ll be loving you always

• With a love that’s true, always

Not for just an hour

Not for just a day

Not for just a year

But always

Take It Easy by the Eagles memoir exercise

Song is my way of letting the universe know I am in the moment, alive and on fire. The song I recall expressing these feelings felt right at the time as my best friend, and I hoofed it along the back streets heading somewhere to meet someone and party.

She was telling me how not to drink too much wine when in a hot tub or it will all go to your head and puking wine is messier than normal booze puke.

The thrill of guys checking us out, coming back for a second look and ignoring them made me feel powerful, like I ruled the life of men. How could it be when in New York I was ugly, awkward and never had a steady boyfriend but here, a year later, in San Jose, California, I attracted guys like a butterfly to flame. Myla helped pave the way, she was a tall blond, attracting dudes even when she didn’t want the attention. Her annoyance at these times got me irked and sometimes made me laugh. I would think, is this how celebrities felt?

That night we sang the words to Take It Easy by the Eagles, harmonizing in a clumsy who-gives-a-shit attitude.

I would play a soft strum trying to master the major chords on my little six-string and carried the song more with my voice.

A few months later, while hanging out on the beach sitting around a bonfire, Myla handed me someone’s guitar and said I could sing and play. I was so high and a little drunk and declined to play but I sang and son got some of the other people to sing along. It was also when I realized Take It Easy would be a song I would recall as a title reflecting the part of my life bumming around the Bay area with my best friend.

I have a tricky question: If I want to write a humorous account of an experience, how do I avoid making the people involved feel embarrassed r offended, when that is not the intention? It goes beyond anonymity, as people who know me could guess who is being referred to in the anecdote. Any ideas?

Memories of Us
Memories that bring a smile to my face, tears to my eyes, a tender tug to my heart.
Memories that rip my heart apart.
Memories that I tuck tenderly deep in my heart.
The wonderful happy memories as well as the sad heartbreaking memories.
All the memories of You, of Us.
We are the Heart within each other’s Heart.
We are Us Always and Forever.
All I have to do is look into the night skies and see “My Special Star” shining brilliantly; showing You are Always with Me; watching over me from your Heavenly Home Above.
So many Memoires we never had the chance to make.
The Memories we were Blessed to make are priceless.
We are still Us.
My Yankee Airman and Your Southern Belle

Don’t close your heart, let him go.

Hold him in your heart of memories of your life together long ago.

You two were so young when you first fell in love.

Just remember, we were even younger when we first fell in love.

First love, even teenage love, we never forget.

Over the years, our life changes more than we could ever imagine.

More than we can ever forget.

We tuck these memories tenderly deep within our heart.

Even the memories that rip our heart apart.

When we are lucky, the memories that bring a smile to our face, tears to our eyes, and tender tugs to our heart.

These are the memoires that shall never part within our heart.

Never forget the memories of him.

Just asking to let me in your heart once again.

Little did either of us know tonight, when we said, I Love You, to each other as we said goodnight would be the last time that we would ever hear each other’s voice again.

As I am writing this, so many years have passed, my heart still breaks as it was yesterday. These were the last words that My Yankee Airman and His Southern Belle would ever say to each other.

Often, over the years, I remember how we just did not want to say goodnight; was that a premonition of things to come, was it just that it was so good to be talking together, or was that God’s Plan to let us have the opportunity of saying I love you as on the day we wed?

Oh, how I wish we could have kept our promise.

We set so many goals when we were just newlywed.

We were right on target.

We had so many plans.

After all, we had our whole lives ahead of us.

We went through periods of steadfastness.

There were days of resolution, as well as forgiveness of ourselves.

As well as times of forgiveness of each other.

Oh yes darling, there were nights of love, laughter, and smiles.

We could never have imagined the changes life would bring to us.

Never in a million years did I expect to find myself in my present situation.

It was always to be My Yankee Airman and His Southern Belle.

It just wasn’t supposed to be this way.

God always has the Perfect Plan for our lives; sadly, God’s plan and our plan are not always the same. It is often difficult, heartbreaking, devastating, life changing when this is the case.

Knowing and believing that God always has the perfect plan is one thing.

Understanding, dealing with it, and accepting it is an entirely different thing.

I have a beautiful little white, trimmed in gold, plaque that hangs on the wall next to my bed with the following verse Psalm 46:10

“Be Still and Know that I Am God”.

This is first thing I see when I awake in the morning and the last thing I see when I fall asleep in the evening.