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I imagined her alone and the tears, a result of sheer helplessness, refused to stop. I will now be airborne and will not even be able to speak to Mum till half an hour after Dad comes out of surgery.
God, please … please be with Dad.
Midnight.
I am out of the airport but Dad is still not out of the OT. The darkest thoughts have been plaguing me for the last hour.
21 May 2013, 1.00 a.m.
I called Mum from the airport and even her ‘Hi, Beta,’ sounded different; relieved. I took a deep breath the moment I heard her voice.
‘Is Dad out?’ I asked. ‘Why did they take so long?’
‘Seems like there was another emergency.’
‘What happened to Dad?’ I shrieked into the phone. I was in a car that one of my cousins was driving and we were speeding towards the hospital.
‘Naah,’ said Mum dismissively, as if no emergency could ever possibly happen with my dad, who was being wheeled out of an emergency neurosurgery operation. ‘Some other guy. Dad is fine. They needed the doctors there.’
Another deep breath.
‘All went okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes, Kasturi, all was okay.’
I paused for a second. ‘All okay?’ I asked, again.
‘Yes, Kas,’ said Mum.
Another pause.
‘All o-’
‘Shut up, Kasturi Beta.’
4.00 a.m.
‘Only one person can go in,’ said Dr Kulkarni, looking at the bunch of us huddled outside the Neurosurgery ICU. Dad had been shifted to the post-operative ICU an hour ago. His extended family were all there, standing with solemn faces.
‘You go, Kas,’ Mum said, nudging me.
I froze.
I stared at my feet, willing them to move, but they would not listen. An inexplicable sort of fear began to creep up inside me. I had always seen Dad healthy and strong. I did not know if I would be able to take the sight of him in a hospital bed; every cell in my body revolted at the idea.
What a coward.
‘Mum … you … you go,’ I stammered.
Mum smiled benignly, as if she was doing me a favour.
‘I know you want to go, Koochie,’ she insisted.
For the first time since she had taken to calling me Koochie, I let it pass without comment or fight. I was about to walk towards the grey-blue doors of the ICU when Mum put a hand on my shoulder.
‘Koochie?’ she said.
‘Yes, Mum…’ I turned around, my heart and head both feeling heavy and tired from stress and exhaustion. Maybe Mum was going to tell me that I had been a rock? She too, I must say, had been remarkably brave.
