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‘Anu?’ I said, looking at the tired face of my friend, the daughter of two IAS officers, who had spent the last three nights sleeping on the hospital floor.
‘Yes, Kasturi?’ she said, smiling. Pitajee, who had maintained a respectable distance from Anu throughout, looked up too. The three of us were in the hospital cafeteria eating paranthas and aloo-tamatar-ki-sabzi. It was odd how this horrible hospital food had become a source of joy and distraction for us.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly.
‘Why?’ she asked, looking surprised.
‘It’s not easy to see a parent unwell,’ I said in a low voice.
Anu said nothing. Pitajee looked on, his eyes taking in the scene with much interest.
‘I could not understand why you would agree to marrying Saumen just for the sake of your dad, but,’ I continued looking down, ‘I do now…’
‘Come here, Kas,’ said Anu, smiling and pulling me into a hug. ‘This will be over soon. Uncle will be discharged in two or three days and things will go back to normal.’
‘I am sorry Anu, I would do the same … anything for Dad,’ I said, shaking my head.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Pitajee place a hand on Anu’s other shoulder. Anu turned around to stare at Pitajee. From where I was, I could only see Pitajee’s face and, after a long time, I saw him smile. It was a smile that reached his eyes, a smile that spelt truce. And just like that, I knew, that as tragic as Anu’s impending nuptials were, she and Pitajee would remain friends.
For the time being, that was enough for me.
11.00 p.m.
‘Kasturi.’
I stopped short, the voice enough to make the hair on my hand stand up. I had just stepped out of Dad’s room to get some medicines and before I could say anything, Purva continued.
‘Kasturi, that I turned up unannounced like this must be deeply uncomfortable for you, I know. I want to make it clear that I am, in no way, trying to fix things between us. They remain the way you wanted them to be.’
No, you idiot! No!
‘Your dad is a lot like my dad,’ he said, slowly and with difficulty, his eyes avoiding my gaze. Even when we were together, Purva hardly ever spoke about his father and I had learnt not to ask questions. I knew, even after all these years, that the wound was still raw – a place in his heart had died along with his father. The pain, I knew, was still too fresh and immense. I had not understood it then, and cannot claim to even now, but I know a little better how it feels to see a parent in pain.
Purva continued. ‘When I met you and your family, I was immediately drawn to how … how complete you guys were together. You fought with each other, rudely cancelled calls and slammed doors in each other’s faces but … you
were complete … complete in a way my family will never be. In Uncle, I saw Dad … they are a lot like each other, you know…’ he said, with a faraway look on his face. ‘It was tough losing mine. If it’s okay with you, I would like to be around till yours is absolutely okay. I will leave immediately afterwards,’ he concluded, and then looked expectantly at me, half afraid that I would disagree.
In Uncle, I saw Dad.
What else had I taken from him when I returned my engagement ring? The lump in my throat made it difficult for me to speak immediately. I had to tell him, tell him that I was sorry, that I had made a mistake, that…
‘Purva ... yes, please stay … umm … I … about the engagement … I…’
‘Don’t worry about that. I have moved on. What’s not meant to happen won’t and should not,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders carelessly.
With that, he left.
24
26 May 2013, 2.00 p.m.
I am petrified. Tomorrow, the doctors will conduct another MRI scan on Dad to make sure that there has not been any further bleeding. The scan is critical because if there is bleeding, that means the surgery was unsuccessful and the entire process will be repeated. Although this is the worst case scenario, my blood runs cold at the mere thought.
6.00 p.m.
I am sitting on the couch next to him, staring at him sleeping. He is refusing to eat anything that I do not feed him with my hands. And here I go again! Why don’t these stupid tears stop?
8.00 p.m.
