It can be your biggest support in a bleak situation.
Brain, please help me!
10.00 p.m.
I had drifted off to sleep, head in Anu’s lap, while Dad and Pitajee watched a cricket match on TV. Mum had returned to spend the night at home – a break for her before we take Dad home and she has to take care of everything.
I woke up to Pitajee and Purva talking to each other in low voices, careful not to disturb me. I squinted and looked at Dad; the TV was switched off and he was fast asleep. Purva was sitting on a chair that he had drawn close to the sofa on which I lay, half asleep.
‘Poor thing,’ Pitajee was saying.
‘This is actually the first time I have seen her sleeping since the operation,’ Anu said. I smiled to myself, feeling wide awake. Few pleasures are greater than overhearing your friends talk about you while you pretend to be asleep.
‘I am worried about her now. Have you seen the dark circles below her eyes? And she is hardly eating…’ Pitajee said.
‘The first night, she just sat on this couch and stared at her dad. Did not sleep a wink…’ added Anu.
‘Someone needs to talk to her,’ said Pitajee.
‘You know … I have never seen this side of Kasturi…’ continued Anu.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Pitajee. I felt smug, good to hear them talk like friends again. Like old times. And yes, even I was interested, what did she mean?
‘Have you seen how her eyes never leave Uncle? She is almost like a mother to her own father right now.’
‘She will make one paranoid mother one day,’ said Pitajee. I could hear him grin. This is another favourite pastime of his; imagining me as a mother, grandmother and more often than not, great-grandmother with a broken hip and missing dentures.
‘And of course, she fainted the other day...’ Anu said.
‘What? When?’ said a concerned voice, that had been quiet all this while. The low baritone of the voice made my heart skip a beat. Purva.
‘Yesterday. Late evening. She had not eaten anything the whole day. She was all right after one of the doctors gave her sugar … don’t worry,’ Pitajee supplied the information.
‘Why had she not eaten?’ Purva asked.
‘Have not you seen, Purva, that the girl is so beside herself with worry that eating is the last thing on her mind?’ said Anu, getting a little agitated herself as I felt a warm hand caress my forehead. ‘Now … don’t look so worried…’
My eyes were beginning to feel painfully heavy and before I knew it, I was dreaming about Dad’s second scan. It still had the brain looking like a shrivelled walnut and the cranial sac was filled with dark shadows.
I woke up, drenched in sweat.
Day 5 in the Private Room, 27 May 2013, 12.30 p.m.
They are wheeling Dad in for the scan. As luck would have it, I am alone with him. Mum and Anu are yet to return from home. Readying the house for Dad’s return, which includes cleaning up the house to ensure that it is free of dust and infection, has taken longer than expected. Pitajee, who is officially staying with his bua, is going to return after lunch when, if all goes well with the scan, Dad will be discharged.
Only Purva is in the hospital, but Dr Verma, who heads the hospital and had once taught Purva, has called him away for a quick catch-up before Purva leaves for Delhi tonight.
12.50 p.m.
Dad came out of the room, grinning from ear to ear. Apparently some doctor had told him another joke that began with – ‘Four doctors went to a pub’ – which, apparently, had had Dad in splits for a whole two minutes. I was too stressed about the report to bother to ask him to repeat the joke to me.
1.00 p.m.
I have asked one of the ward boys to wheel Dad back to his room. I will wait for the report.
2.00 p.m.
When the doctor handed me the large envelope, I wasted not a second in pulling out the report from it. My untrained eyes scanned the report anxiously. It took me a few seconds to figure out what I was looking at.
The cranial cavity still had dark shadows in it.
My heart sank as I realized that my worst fears had come true. The bleeding had not stopped … Dad would be operated on again, he would spend another couple of days in that horrendous ICU with sick patients all around him…
Thoughts like these created havoc in my head, panic building up steadily inside me. Then, clutching the report to my chest I ran, as fast as my legs could carry me, without really knowing where I was going. It was only a few seconds later that I realized that that odd, unpleasant noise irritating me was the sound of my flip-flops flapping against the concrete floors as I raced across the hallways leading to Dr Verma’s room in the other wing of the hospital.
It took me a good few minutes to reach the hallway of Dr Verma’s cabin, even though I was running so fast that my stomach was hurting. My legs were automatically taking me to the man I needed to see.
‘Purva!’ I screamed, as soon as I saw him.
He was walking out of Dr Verma’s cabin and stopped short when he spotted me. I continued to run towards him, gesticulating with the damn report. Purva broke into a run himself and met me midway, a few anxious seconds later.
‘Kasturi!’ he said, grabbing my elbow, his face white with worry. ‘What happened? Is Dad okay?’
‘No,’ I said, clutching the sleeve of his shirt, all formality forgotten in that moment of sheer desperation. I vaguely recalled gifting him this shirt for his birthday. ‘The … report … it’s happened again … there is blood everywhere!’ I stammered, clutching my throat that suddenly seemed parched, breathing in bursts, tears streaming down my face.
‘Give it to me,’ he said brusquely and held the report against the sunlight that streamed in from one of the windows. For what seemed like an eternity, he stared at the report, his brows knit in concentration.
‘Who said there has been more bleeding?’ he asked, turning to face me.
‘The cranial sac is all dark…’ I said, pointing a shaking finger at the scan. ‘It was dark like this in the previous scan too and Dr Advani told me it was so because of the blood that had collected in the cavity,’ I rattled off breathlessly, staring at my hand that was shaking like a leaf in the wind.
Purva gently put a hand on mine to stop it from trembling and when he spoke, which he did a few seconds later, his voice was very gentle.
‘Kasturi,’ he said, bending a little bit so that his face was at level with mine. ‘The cavity is dark because it contains water – the same water that was used to wash away the blood. There is no bleeding.’
‘Wh … what?’ I said, my mouth open, suddenly feeling weak with relief.
Purva hastened to grab me by both my arms, lest I fell in a heap on the floor.
‘Kasturi,’ he said, almost holding me. ‘Dad is fine. With a scan as clean as this, he will be discharged in a few hours. The surgery was successful!’
I stared blankly at him.
‘But the brain … it’s still in one corner…’
‘It will ease into its original size in a few days. It’s absolutely normal.’
‘Oh,’ I said, closing my eyes and, feeling Purva’s warm body next to mine, found myself caving into his chest almost involuntarily.
‘It’s over, Kasturi … he is absolutely fine,’ he said as he pulled me closer. His gentle hands stroked my hair for a few minutes and I clung to him, eyes closed, willing my breathing to normalize.
‘It’s over,’ he muttered again, more to himself than to me. That reminded both of us of something else that was now over.
The next instant, we looked at each other and, embarrassed at how close we were, withdrew. Purva looked everywhere but at me.
‘I will get going,’ he said, under his breath and hurriedly walked away.
2.01 p.m.
Still trying to digest what just happened, I pulled out my phone and found myself staring at it. Text from Anu. Succinct and shocking.
‘My wedding date has been f
ixed for 9 December.’
I stood still for a few minutes.
25
28 May 2013.
Amidst much fanfare, a cavalcade of six cars brought Dad home. Ours is a quiet neighbourhood where little happens, so Dad’s return was much like a highly-anticipated state event. Neighbours stood on their balconies and craned their necks to have a look at ‘Doctor Sahib’ who had just come from the ICU. I found myself looking around to make sure that there were no cameras. Mum actually waved at the ‘crowds’ – her word, not mine – as she helped Dad into our house.
Dad has been told to rest as much as he can for two weeks and then resume his normal lifestyle. That had me very worried; for a man as active as Dad, I know the ‘resting’ bit was going to be the biggest challenge in this entire ordeal.
I did not get to see Purva again after the incident outside Dr Verma’s cabin. He bade farewell to Dad and Mum when I was not around. From what I heard, Mum had become all teary-eyed when he was leaving and had blessed him furiously. Dad had had a word with him alone. No amount of coaxing or threatening would get him to reveal what they’d discussed. Pitajee and Anu had left soon after, given that the worst was behind us. They walked down the hall together and then parted ways. For some reason, maybe because it was so symbolic of how things stood at the moment, I felt a lump in my throat as I stared at their retreating backs. Pitajee took the right with his Buaji and Anu the left, where a car with a red light, that Saumen had arranged for, waited to take her to the airport.
What happened to the four of us? Just the other day we were all happy and heading towards marriages that would have lasted us forever. And now this.
It does not help that a lot of this muck is my fault.
3 June 2013.
Another extract from a post on ‘Pearls of Wisdom’:
Close your eyes and think of all the problems that exist in your life. If the list does not include illness, you are fine. And if the list includes an illness, then know that if God gave you the problem, he has also given you the strength to deal with it. Either way, keep the faith.
7 June 2013.
‘You have a job and a life to go back to,’ Mum said, physically pushing me away with her hands. Really?
‘Mum, another day here … for Dad…’ I pleaded.
‘Dad is fine,’ she said breezily, as I peeped inside Dad’s bedroom, which he was not supposed to leave for another three days. Of course he was not there. The missing parent, who had just spent a couple of days in the Neurosurgery ICU, was found, a few minutes later, in the garden, jumping up to grab a low-lying papaya.
‘Thought we could have this fresh for breakfast,’ said my father a little sheepishly, scratching the gauze that adorned his head, a small reminder of the ordeal we had gone through.
‘Dad,’ I said threateningly, pointing towards the door.
‘I will go in now and rest,’ he said meekly, as if the idea had just struck him.
I sighed.
‘Okay, one more day,’ said Mum wearily and scuttled in after Dad. Dad was worse than a toddler right now!
9 June 2013, 6.00 p.m.
My little bag, mostly stuffed with laddoos that I have told Mum a hundred times that I do not eat, was in the car. I had had a good cry in the bathroom and was now ready to leave.
‘God bless you, Beta,’ said Dad, placing a hand on my head.
I said nothing and looked away, lest I teared up, determined to keep the mood positive. Leaving him was turning out to be more difficult than I had imagined.
Dad’s hand lingered on my head and I was forced to face him. ‘You are my son,’ he said smiling.
‘And you are my father,’ I said, giggling. Dad rolled his eyes and then laughed.
6.10 p.m.
Ten minutes in the car and Mum called.
‘Kasturi!’ she said, sounding very worried. My heart skipped a beat. ‘Dad is missing.’
‘Again?’ I wailed, slapping a hand on my forehead.
‘Yes...’
‘Check the garden?’ I suggested.
‘He’s not there.’
‘The terrace?’
‘No, not there either!’
‘Umm … oh god … the shed?’
‘No, not there!’
A nagging suspicion reared its ugly head. ‘Is his car in the garage?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Mum after a pause, sounding in awe of what Dad was capable of. Doctors had strictly told Dad to not drive for another two weeks at least.
‘Did you call him?’
‘About fifteen times!’
‘And?’
‘He’s not taking the call obviously! What if … what if something has happened? I don’t know why I ever married your father! You know, when your Dadi-Dada came to our house with the proposal, that very day one man had proposed marriage to me. If only I had… ’
‘Bye Mum, will call you in a bit,’ I said, cutting in. I knew the whole story already.
I dialled Dad’s number and he picked up in an instant.
‘Dad,’ I said, exasperated. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Driving!’ he said jubilantly.
‘Why?’ I asked, shaking my head incredulously.
‘Just wanted to check if everything was working all right,’ he said. I knew he was not talking about the car and I could not help but smile.
‘Is it?’
‘Of course,’ he said happily.
I slumped into the seat of the car, a wide grin plastered across my face as I dialled Mum’s number to tell her that Dad was all right.
I waited for Mum to pick up the phone and thought about the one thing I had to do.
Get Purva back.
26
11 June 2013, Delhi.
I might be rather thick most of the time but twenty-one unanswered calls are enough to make it abundantly clear to me that Purva does not wish to talk.
Why am I surprised? Did I expect him to welcome me with a jaimala after all the drama I have done? Pitajee told me today that he thinks I have the mental agility of a soap dish. I think I will kill him. Yes, that will be the noble thing to do.
13 June 2013.
I have sent him twenty emails.
And called him thirty-four times.
And visited his hospital three times.
Nothing.
15 June 2013.
Purva walked away the moment he saw me approaching. It hurt more than I had ever imagined anything could.
18 June 2013.
‘I am now losing patience with that obstinate man,’ I said exasperatedly into the phone.
‘Of course,’ said Pitajee mildly. ‘He is the one who is at fault…’
‘Yes!’ I said indignantly, conveniently ignoring the sarcasm. ‘It’s not like I went away and married the first man I found walking his dog on the street outside my house.’
‘So, Kasturi, tell me, what did you do?’
‘I just acted a little … you know … pricey,’ I said, delicately shrugging my shoulders.
‘And?’
‘And threw a small tantrum, which, might I add, we’re all allowed, every once in a while.’
‘And?’
‘Errr…’
‘And?’ Pitajee insisted.
‘Umm … returned the engagement ring,’ I replied, my voice tiny now.
‘And?’
‘And cancelled the wedding…’ I said, deflating like a punctured balloon.
Okay, I get it.
23 June 2013.
The latest from our revered doctor is that he has changed his phone number with the primary purpose of avoiding me. Of course, I got his new number from Anu about two milliseconds after he changed it. Ha!
27 June 2013.
I called on his new number eleven times and he did not pick up. I called him from Vijaywada’s phone and he answered instantly.
However, Purva stuck to his obstinate guns and cancelled the call the moment I said hello.
29 June 2013.
‘Dogs,’ said Mr Vijaywada, pulling a chair next to me.
‘What about them, Mr Vijaywada?’ I asked, trying hard to sound interested. The things I do to keep my job.
‘Many years ago I used to live in Calcutta.’
‘Very good,’ I said.
‘And I picked up this stray dog and made him mine.’
The thought of anything becoming his was deeply disturbing but, putting my feelings aside, I continued to look on encouragingly.
‘But then, I needed to shift to Delhi … to start a new life.’
‘I see.’
‘But I could not leave my dog!’
‘Oh, of course,’ I agreed.
‘Do you know what he did?’
‘He?’
‘The dog was a he.’
‘Oh, so what did he do?’
‘He went to the kitchen, used his little paws to open the kitchen window and jumped out.’
I spluttered out the coffee I was drinking. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He knew he was coming in the way of my life, and he sensed my hesitation … and … and he committed suicide, just so that I could carry on with my life. I found his body on the street when I came back from office that day.’
‘Your dog committed suicide?’ I asked, just to clarify.
Vijaywada nodded his head slowly and sadly. ‘Today is his death anniversary,’ he added in a despairing voice.
‘Anniversary of the suicide of your dog,’ I repeated, biting the insides of my cheeks to stop the guffaws.
Vijaywada nodded his head.
‘I think you should go home and rest,’ I said, trying desperately to control my laughter. ‘It could not have been easy for you.’
‘It still isn’t,’ he said, looking forlornly at his hands.
Vijaywada got up and was but a few feet away from us when Padma (who had been listening to the conversation) burst out laughing. ‘I know what actually happened,’ she said.
‘What?’ I asked, wiping coffee from the table where I had spilt it in a fit of laughter.
‘He pushed his dog out of the kitchen and then pretended it was suicide!’
Can This Be Love? Page 12