Real life stories that need telling

Photo by author

In the end we will all become stories.

And some stories just have to be told.

The little known, heartbreaking story of the stunningly beautiful Rattanbai Petit (1900–1929), also known as Rattanbai Jinnah, Maryam Jinnah, the Flower of Bombay, or simply, Ruttie. The young, Indian, Bombay born, Parsi wife of Mohammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan.

Her life was stuff movies are made of. Full of intrigue, affluence, drama, tragedy, but most importantly, beauty. Beauty of a woman, beauty of love, beauty that moved many.

Ruttie was born to affluence, to the anglicized, elite, Petit family in Bombay. Brought…


Some of us have to deal with this. Parents' influence on our lives are long lasting and deep. It has the potential to makes us whole and healed or leave us broken and scattered; equally forcefully.


First hand experience suffering a brain hemorrhage

[photo by Author (S.N. Mulier)]
[photo by Author (S.N. Mulier)]
Photo taken by S. N. Mulier (author of this article)

Among some memorable days in my life, April 13th, 2011 will be a day I am unlikely to forget. It was the day I had a brain hemorrhage and lived to tell the story.

Full disclosure, I am a physician. At the very least, I have knowledge of human physiology, pathology, disease processes and symptomatology. I am aware of the theory and practice of how diseases present clinically, in patients I treat. When it happens to you though, it is somewhat different.

Those of us trained clinically like to think that health conditions happen for a reason. Sometimes, the reason…


“The past does not come back merely by longing for it. All we have is the now.” Mere words. But they take on a very special meaning when you have lost a lot. The past keep calling you when you have lost irretrievably. And you don’t really want the now.

When life has taken a lot, it may look like not much is left for death to take. But when the end happens, there is no comfort. There is no sense of balance, retribution or fairness. The loss is simply compounded. It is excruciating. Death is its own beast and…


The day father died was like any other. Spring had come to our small Indian town. Sun was out, warm and mild. While spring air was a medley of fresh blossoms, leaves mixed with wood smoke, growing up; in 2020, spring was a lungful of vehicle exhaust with a faint occasional waft of freshness that dared sneak through the smog.

That day in March our world turned upside down. The journey from hope to hopelessness was quick. All those days in the intensive care unit while he was tethered to monitors, syringe pumps, fluid drips and ventilators that were supposed…

S. N. Mulier

Writer, Thinker, Scientist

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