Losing Touch

  ‘It was really lovely, the castle. The architecture and that. But when we got inside, it was a bit of a disappointment.’

  ‘That’s what the Christians said about the Colosseum.’

  Everyone thinks this is funny, and Sunila retreats before they see her and try to suppress their laughter. She has stopped trying to explain her disapproval of these kinds of jokes, like that one Tarani used to think was so amusing: A Punch cartoon of the Christians facing the lions with the caption ‘And there was one poor lion that hadn’t got a Christian’. Never mind. Never mind. Let them enjoy themselves.

  In the kitchen, the microwave is still busily humming. Has Arjun got enough to eat? Did the children get their chicken? Who needs more chapattis? Sunila glances over at Pavi. No sign of the earlier anxiety. Firm hands gripping the ladles, the plates, the extra-large rice cooker. When a jar of pickle needs opening, it is Pavi who unscrews the lid.

  Sunila admires the easy competence of Sadiq (all grown up) and his cousins who can microwave food, feed their children and sit chatting on the sofas with everyone. It feels as though the centre is no longer in the kitchen with the aunts, but some shifting, nebulous nervous system that depends on where the cousins and their laughter are. Even simple conversation is mined with this difficult computer language that all the youngsters know. Sunila daren’t ask any questions in case someone laughs at her. It’s better to stay here in the kitchen.

  And when everyone else has had seconds and thirds, and the lemon meringue pie, chocolate cake and trifle have vanished and the cousins have washed and dried most of the dishes, Sunila, Pavi and Haseena finally sit down at the kitchen table and serve their own food onto the old plastic melamine plates. They eat in comfortable silence, passing the pickled onions and the Bolst’s. And when one lifts the kettle to boil water for tea, another collects the pot from the draining board and spoons in tea leaves, while the third wipes off three mugs and three teaspoons. Sunila’s heart is full. This is family.

  ‌12

  ‌Breathing Issues

  June 2002

  Arjun sits as close as his wheelchair will permit. His younger sister, Pavitra, slumps in the armchair in front of him. She is sixty-nine. He is seventy-two.

  She lives on the fourth floor in an assisted-living building. The flat is small, but with none of the clutter of the previous one where she, her husband, Mike, and the two children jumbled around together – Where are my socks? Who took my sweater? Are there any bananas left?

  Mike is now in hospital, having suffered his second stroke. Like a musical stop, an unexpected rest, his absence is like a too sudden syncopation; the support for the family’s flying melodies has gone. Mike’s booming cartoon laugh hoowaa hoowaa hoowaa has gone. Mike’s tartan tobacco perfuming his embrace has gone. His children wonder at this quiet, empty person who cannot speak but who occasionally squints up at them through his one good eye.

  The two sons, both living in Cornwall, shuttle between their father, all hospital smells and rough sheets, and their mother whose memories nestle around the old green and beige history of the London flat. Arjun sees his nephews’ shock when Pavitra talks about dying. He sees that Pavitra understands their fear, and he watches her struggle to be a parent despite the confusion, the pain, the overwhelming weariness.

  He thinks of the photo albums, their childhood belonging to another land, where they were once without pain: trips to Goa, to the hill stations; smiling groups hugging in front of the Red Fort, on top of stone staircases, and next to sandcastles at the beach. It all belongs to some other once-upon-a-time.

  Dying is no longer the repellent bogeyman of younger days. It has become more attractive. Even the word, dying, sounds soothing; a gentle sliding away.

  The two nephews complain to Arjun about the hospital, the arrogant, cruel nurses, the awful food. They demand better care: they want someone like their parents to take care of their parents.

  A tinkling in the kitchen as the day nurse makes tea. The afternoon sun slides down the tall display cabinet. A picture of Pavitra and Mike is angled on the top shelf. Other pictures placed on lower shelves can be seen at a glance, but to see Pavitra and Mike you must sit across the room and look up, almost to the ceiling, as though the photograph is about to disappear to heaven.

  Pavitra gasps, ‘Why – am – I – so – scared? Why – can’t – I – get – any – air – into – my – lungs?’

  ‘Pet, calm down. Try to breathe more slowly. Look, copy me.’ He breathes in slowly and pushes out the breath with his mouth open. She tries, but can’t copy him since it is unseemly to display her tongue. She breathes in and blows air out, but can’t slow down. Her shoulders lift during the intake, the right hitching slightly more than the left, as though trying to help it up. But the air won’t go in and nothing she can do will help it.

  He wishes to straighten her up, put pillows behind her back and shoulders, settle her so that she will feel more comfortable, relax a little. But he cannot even reach out to hug her.

  His left arm no longer functions independently. His right arm can lift the left so that he can scratch the dry skin at his temple. That is as much as the left hand can accomplish. The right arm can push a phone next to his ear, if he can rest the elbow on a table.

  He watches his sister’s laboured breathing, the blanket dropped around her feet. She has always been a modest woman. He knows she would be embarrassed if she knew her knees were exposed. He cannot reach down to pick up her blanket.

  She says, ‘They – were – mean – to – me.’ She pushes back her right sleeve to show him the deep bruising at her elbow where a syringe was carelessly pushed into the bone. ‘That’s – why – I – discharged – myself.’

  ‘Pet, don’t try to speak.’ He knows this story. Perhaps the nurse was bored, irritated, badly paid. Whatever the reason, he is sickened. How could they treat her like this? She is no more than eighty pounds now and her thin arms, lying circled in her lap, look like the last twigs from a ravaged nest.

  ‘Would you like some music?’ He looks up at the day nurse but Pavitra shakes her head.

  ‘Please – no – too – loud.’

  The day nurse says, ‘I don’t like all that Britney Spears business. Not like real music, is it?’ She puts the tray down and holds out the mug with a straw to Pavitra. ‘I’m going down to check with Amy. She said she called the doctor an hour ago. He should have called back by now.’ She rustles out of the flat.

  Arjun remembers back to when he was a nurse. During one of his night visits to the ward, he found one of the patients having difficulty sleeping. He offered the elderly man a cup of tea. And then another voice whispered, ‘Please may I have a cup of tea, too?’ He found himself handing round cups of tea while everyone relaxed. Eventually, the word went round and for several days the whole ward sat up at 2 a.m., ready for their tea.

  Pavitra’s face is thin and her eyes are too large. She looks so little like the photograph at the top of the cabinet. A dark-haired, thirty-year-old Mike, his arm around the tiny woman, leans towards the camera. She sits stiffly, smiling nervously. How old was she? Twenty-two? She looks younger.

  Pavitra says, ‘Please – call – the – doctor.’

  ‘Pet, calm yourself.’

  She still thinks he is capable and he has a moment of triumph and fury. If only it were that simple – to pick up the phone, to make these idiots understand that his sister can’t breathe, to force them to come immediately, to bring oxygen, tranquillizers, an old-fashioned kind of nurse who would take charge efficiently. The way he used to.

  He must sit in his wheelchair and watch his sister trying to breathe. Is this what is meant by learning patience? He has said nothing when his wife has pulled him from his wheelchair to seat him in the La-Z-Boy, even though it was painful. He has waited while the social worker and the district nurse have discussed him and his failing body as though he is some difficult and fragile problem they must solve. He has eaten what was put in front of him – overc
ooked vegetables and small squares of toast with Marmite – even though he hates Marmite and longs for brisket cooked in red wine. He has sat in the shower, naked in front of his wife, who helps him to wash, bowing his head as he waits for the water to fall.

  And is it impatient to wish to stand up, walk to the phone, pick it up, dial the number and use a strong voice to summon help? Precious Lord, take my hand. Lead me on, let me stand. His god, tentatively standing on the other side of the living room, doesn’t make eye contact. Arjun is enraged. What good are you? His god touches the photo frames, looks into the pictures, examines the skirting board. Even a look of understanding would help, some small gesture to show Arjun that he isn’t alone. He wonders if this god is sent to mock him, standing just out of reach, ignoring pain and focusing on trivia.

  Pavitra says, ‘These – nurses – are – Africans.’

  He says, ‘They don’t mean you any harm. They are used to poor treatment in their own country. So they can’t understand how to treat people gently. They aren’t like American nurses.’

  She nods, accepting the excuse. Whoever they are, Africans, British, Indians, Californians, he hates them for despising and mistreating the old.

  She says, ‘If – it – was – a – young – person – they – would – try – harder.’

  He agrees.

  She is too weak to cry. He tries to talk about the children, the grandchildren, but his voice is soft and she is deaf. Her blue hearing aid hangs off her right ear like some strange Christmas-tree ornament. He doesn’t know if the battery is working.

  He talks on. At first, she bends her head towards him, then leans back, her shoulders still moving up and down under her internal seismic shifting. Something in his voice must reach her and she closes her eyes. His throat becomes tight as she finally sleeps. He talks on.

  The time he climbed a tree and she wanted to follow him up. How old was she? Seven? He must have been ten or eleven. He eventually climbed down and pushed her up, his shoulder under her bony bottom. She scrambled, small hands unable to find a handhold. ‘This tree’s too hard for me.’ But he continued to heave and she finally made it to the lowest branch, about eight feet above the ground. He climbed above her but she remained where she was, content to sit in the fork and look out over the meadow to the foothills of the Himalayas.

  He climbed down and left her in the tree. She called after him, but he shook his head as he walked away. ‘You can climb down yourself.’ She was angry. ‘I don’t care. I want to stay in this tree anyway.’ He went far enough to be sure she couldn’t see him through the trees, and then wormed back through the tall grass to see what she would do.

  For a while she sat staring in the direction he’d gone. He knew what she was thinking. He’ll come back. And then she started to cry. He almost ran to her, but then she began to extend one foot, searching for a hold on the tree trunk.

  She released the upper branch and hugged the lower branch with both arms, easing herself down. Her legs dangled and kicked. He knew she’d be sobbing, but she was a determined little thing. Look how she’d followed him up.

  Finally, one foot connected with a large knot on the tree trunk and she stabilized, transferring her weight so she could move her body further down. She bent, placing one hand down on the knot.

  As she lowered her body to the ground he saw her chest heaving with the effort. She stood up and brushed off her dress, examined her knees and then shook her hair back. How proud she looked. How proud he was.

  His voice is almost gone. Amy arrives. ‘The bus is here to take you home, Mr Kulkani. And the doctor is on his way to see Pavitra.’

  He says, ‘Don’t wake her.’ He watches her sleeping face, the lined cheeks sagging. But in the afternoon light, he imagines she looks a little like his tree-climbing sister.

  His god, the shuffling bumbler, is turning to leave but, Arjun is almost sure, there is a faint smile.

  He will not see Pavi again. Once the doctor finally comes, they’ll take her back to the hospital.

  As they wheel him out to the lift, he wonders if she is dreaming of climbing up into the branches of the tallest tree in Mussoorie. She can see so far; she can see their school, their house and away to the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas and to the white sky beyond.

  It has been their custom to pray after his visits. He prays to his shuffling god, imbues him with more power for this task. Lord, please hold my sister. Bring her peace. Keep her in Your hand and give her the rest she so needs.

  He bows his head as the lift descends to the ground floor. Lord. Oh, Lord. Please let her die.

  ‌13

  ‌Reduced Deep-Tendon Reflexes

  July 2003

  Six a.m. From the kitchen window, Sunila can see that the wood pigeons have knocked over their water dish again, the silly things. She opens the back door and steps out into the cool morning air. She refills the water dish from the hose and places a large stone in the middle to weigh it down. She glances up at the rose bushes. All these dead heads. A few minutes will take care of them. The secateurs are hanging on a nail inside the shed door. She puts on her gloves and collects the compost bag, breathes in the sleepy, damp, morning earth smell, the milk-blue sky promising another hot one. She snips at the withered flowers and drops them into the bag. One of the deep yellow roses has opened to reveal faint pink streaks on its inner petals. She inhales the scent and closes her eyes. A beautiful English country garden. You are nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth.

  She brushes her hair back with her wrist. The wood pigeons haven’t come back yet. The first sun is warming a small orange and black butterfly on one of the lobelia bushes. What’s that song about the butterfly? ‘I chase the la-la-la-la butterfly of love.’ Such a pretty melody.

  The butterfly stutters away along the fence and over a patch of bright colour. Between the pots at the bottom of the garden is a young fox, lying there, as bold as you please, soaking up the sun. He’s probably already done his business on the lavender. Dirty beast. His coat catches the light and his tail lies across the earth like the long, fluffy brush she uses for dusting around the picture frames. His quick breath moves his body up and down. He looks like a drawing from a children’s book: white whiskers, amber eyes, slender black forepaws like a dancer’s feet. He stands up, widens his rear legs, and she realizes he is going to do more business right there.

  ‘Not on my lobelias, you don’t!’ She raises the secateurs and rushes at him. His head pops up like a flag and he is a red streak through the fence. She bends down to look through the narrow gap, half expecting to see his mocking narrow face. Nothing but dense green bush. He might be in the middle, laughing at her, or he might be several gardens away.

  ‘And stay out.’ She marches back to the shed to deposit her secateurs and gloves. She empties her bag into the compost heap. Cheeky bounder. She’ll have to block that gap in the fence.

  She steps inside the kitchen to collect her tea and then sit on the back step. Despite the fox, the morning is still perfect and she can relax for a moment to inhale the drifting scents from the flowers. That peony needs repotting. Perhaps she can do it later after she’s attended to Arjun.

  ‘Sunila?’

  She sighs. A few moments of peace and quiet. Is it too much to ask?

  ‘Sunila?’ Seventy-five and he still has such a loud voice.

  ‘I’m coming.’ The words sound irritable. She tries a brighter note. ‘Just closing the back door.’ But the door slips out of her fingers and slams shut. She puts her tea down on the counter. No chance of drinking that now. She hurries into the living room. Arjun is standing up and leaning on the walker.

  ‘Good morning, Arjun. How are you?’

  The body is less. The legs are another pair of folds in his pyjama trousers. The hands, long thin fingers that used to carve descriptions, edicts, stories, out of the air, are now speechless in his lap. He used to be able to type emails to friends in India. Now he has to use both hands to grasp
a pencil, the rubber tip-tapping out messages, key by key. The thin hair no longer disguises the dark marks of age spreading maps across his skull and cheek. His skin, always dry, has developed spots that turn into red welts that peel and weep if they are not regularly rubbed with cream. The back of his head is always itchy, his ankles, his knees, his elbows and wrists.

  ‘Please open the door.’ He pushes the walker.

  She can see it; the stumble, the fall, the crack of bone. ‘Don’t go so quickly. I’m coming.’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Sunila.’

  ‘You’re so impatient. You’ll break your hip and then where will we be?’

  ‘I’m not going to break my hip.’

  She opens the door wide and stands back.

  He moves slowly, finding the rhythm of walking. She watches him as he navigates the doorway and trundles through to the toilet.

  ‘Thank you.’ His voice comes back with a slight echo. It’s only the bathroom acoustics but it sounds as though he’s calling from another world. She shivers, goes back into the kitchen.

  She considers turning on her cassette player but decides to wait until he’s finished. How much longer before he is unable to shave or wash, to comb his hair? These days she has to help him pull his trousers on. She finds a pullover, tracksuit bottoms, socks and the comfortable boxer shorts he now prefers. The small pile of clothes is so much smaller.

  Was it so long ago when he used to wear a shirt and tie and a suit for work? He’d stand in front of the mirror, deftly knotting his tie in a half-Windsor. How proud she was to see him take his place on the rostrum in church, right next to the pastor and senior elder. Humble and all, but so nicely dressed. She remembers the ceremony to ordain him. She’d sat in a pew towards the back of the church, covertly watching the other church members seeing her Arjun elevated to this important position: an Indian and no different from any of them.