Author: kidsaregifts20

Bed number 19.

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6

I never really left. I was always there. At home with my folks. Even when I flew across oceans, a part of me remained at home. The part that refused to leave. The rest of me has been homesick since that day.

The first time I was to leave my Motherland, India, twenty-three years ago, my dad noticed I was close to tears at the airport. He said, “Chin up my dear. Remember who you are and how proud we are of you.”

Two weeks back he had a routine surgery on his neck that has left him unable to breathe adequately for now. He has received all the support he needs in a timely and gentle manner. For a while he was sedated but when he came out of it, the first thing he verbalised on seeing my mum and I was ‘I love you.’

Two days back I left him again. This time in an Intensive Care Unit bed. Bed number 19. I left his doctors, my brothers, my mother and all the extended family in-charge of him and of each other. I left a list of plans, strategies and resources. I left not knowing what happens next. I left as I breathed and meditated and pleaded with the Gods to heal him.

Once again, I see the fragility of human life. I witness people and situations in a constant state of flux, the tide of hope rising and plunging, our uneven shallow breaths and his, our collective helplessness, the tentative stepping forward and standing back, the engagement of distant Healers, the comforting holding and massaging of hands, hours of sitting in air-conditioned rooms and waiting, second-guessing other’s needs, the tender wetting of lips and applying Vaseline, the daily mid-morning updates that set the tone for the day.

Walking purposefully through hospital corridors is something I’ve done a lot of. But this time it’s me who’s walking through them, lost and vacant.

After four weeks, we hope to return home for a longish time. The very thought makes my heart sing. May Mother Nature do its magical, mysterious dance – make things worse and then, make them better again.

A good death

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Yesterday all national flags were at half mast, here in Delhi. Yes. It is sad. She was and will be an icon and an inspiration to many. Her dignity unmatched and her sense of duty unwavering.

She died in her bed, in her home, surrounded by her children and grand-children. She could say her final good-byes to those she loved. They could hold her hands while they were still warm. I am sure her corgis were not too far away. Her doctors kept an eye on her till the very end. She possibly had no physical or emotional pain and her spiritual needs were met, I am sure. Her family was certainly prepared. The newsreaders were kind enough to forewarn her people.

She could fulfill her duties right up to two days before her death. She left no debts unpaid, I am sure. No business unfinished, I hope.

Supremely dignified, even in her exit.

She was 96. She had a life well lived.

She had a death well died.

Long lived the Queen.

Loved and cherished forever.

Entrances and exits.

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The two little lads were inseparable. Saagar and Rohan. They cycled together all evening after school and kicked a ball about for hours. They had dinner at each other’s houses. They created snowmen and played with snowballs together. They even shared a bath every now and then. Luckily, they lived right next to each other and their parents were friends.

At Ulster Hospital in East Belfast, the staff accommodation is a set of six flats. Rohan‘s family lived in the one just below us. His mum, Shruti, was the best grower of indoor plants. A gentle, sweet lady. She was also a doctor but at that time, was not working. Over time our families became close friends and continued to visit each other even after we moved to London and they moved to the north of England. If you ask me to name my oldest friends in the UK, Shruti’s name would be on top.

Eventually Shruti started working in Psychiatry and seemed to enjoy it, even though the exams were a struggle as they are for many of us, when they must fit somewhere in between work, kids, husbands, homes, pets, friends, sleep and homesickness.

When Saagar was diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, I needed to speak with her. I needed her. I asked her by text what time would suit. She said she’s call me after work and she did.

“Hi Shruti. Thanks so much for calling.”

‘No problem. I am driving so we may get cut off. I’ll call you back if that happens.’

As soon as I started speaking it got cut off and she called back and the same thing happened again. And again. And then she didn’t call back.

When Saagar died, she came to see us the very next day with her husband, utterly shocked.

A month later I needed to connect with her again. She said she’d call me back after work. She called while driving. She had to pick someone up from somewhere or drop someone off somewhere. She was on the move. On – Off – On – Off : our phones connected and then rudely disconnected mid-sentence and stayed disconnected for seven years.

Two days back a message arrived from Shruti on Whatsapp saying, “Please join us and bless the couple.” Rohan gets married soon. A nice little electronic invitation to the reception was posted underneath the message. The invitation wasn’t for anyone in particular. It had no names on it. I can’t be entirely sure it was for us.

I am happy for the family and for Rohan. Wishing them all possible happiness, I RSVP’d with apologies for being unable to attend. There’s nothing here and let’s not pretend there is. I felt sad for a little while at this loss of a valued friendship, but not for long. This is an opportunity to let go. Yet again. If there is one thing I want to be skilled at, it is to keep letting go, remembering what the Bard of Avon said – ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances …’ I get it.

“I would like to live

like a river flows

carried by the surprise

of its own unfolding.”                                    

– John O’Donahue

Dis _ _ _ _ tions!

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Sitting at my desk, hoping to create gold on paper (read computer screen). I wonder what’s on radio? A new Urdu poem on Instagram? The angle of the sun getting snazzier by the day. That pile of unopened mail, staring at me. Those people walking by the window, in all-white costumes, singing. Are they drunk? The silencer in that car is not working.

The answer phone, blinking. Oh! That pending phone call to Mum and that long overdue important e-mail. Wonder if it’s cycling weather tomorrow. My hair, so bad from sweating inside the helmet. My stomach’s churning again. I wonder if the orchids need more water in this weather. Maybe I should look it up. No. No. Later. That new film someone recommended on Netflix. That Book at Bedtime – I need to catch up with the first two episodes. A-level results came out today. I hope the majority of the students were not disappointed. Saagar did so well in his A-level exams! Ten years ago.

That picture perfect Expedia cloud, framed in the middle of my window. This breeze, just like the one before the first monsoon shower back home. Wonder if anyone’s reading the report I wrote. Wonder if many patients will make it to the hospital tomorrow for their appointments. What do the train drivers do when they are on strike? I see the point they are trying to make. They believe they’re doing it for us all. Good for them.

The laundry needs sorted and put away. I need to pack for the weekend. A cup of jasmine tea and a piece of chocolate would be perfect. It’s too late to write anything sensible now. So, here’s praying for better luck tomorrow. Good night for now.

Borrowed light

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It sits on my shoulder like a monkey. Annoying. I’ve had a long day, I say. Go away.

It pulls my right ear and searches for lice scrambling all its fingertips over my scalp, irritating as hell. There are none. Get lost. I am not a child.

I’m losing it. The moon is winning.

Proud of its super-fullness. It is evil. The tides it excites, the fights it ignites, the way it bends minds, the resting foetuses it pulls into this cruel world, stealing sleep from the depths of the night. Milky and serene on the outside, within a serious trouble-maker resides. Hurricanes, tornados and earthquakes it invites.

You’re an imposter. I see you. A big black rough rock with nought to your name. No water. No gravity. No air. Certainly, no light. This thing you proclaim as your own is in fact not so. We all know. It belongs to the star called Sun. The one that gives life. Not you. That’s the real star. You, a mere appendage, borrowing importance, gloating in your pretend beauty, cycling and circling with poor intent.

You’re no good to me. Go away. You bad bad moon.