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‘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.
