The knowledge of the gods

"Tell me Ammama, why were you named Fragrance?" I ask. We are discussing stars and names, and I am curious because others born under her star are named with letters G and H.

She reluctantly spells: "My father hoped I would die young, and named me after his sister who died within a month." Looking at my face, she quickly rises in defence: "he was heartbroken. I, after all, killed my mother at birth."

"Names have a strange influence of their own," she says and leaves the rest unspoken - that her grandmother raised her for many years, that her father snatched her away from her loving care for the sake of his pride, that he paid her scant attention, that he got her married to a drunkard - that the name strangles her every now and then, and that she has had to fight it all her life.

Names are a burden, I know it too well. There are expectations and dreams that I have longed to shrug away.

And then there is my aunt, robbed of her destiny, when named to match her brother. But, true to her given name, she handles every crisis that life throws her way with Grace.

Lil' one, what do I wish for you... a name that sits as light as butterfly kisses, or one that will shape your years. Neither may work, but this I hope does. A wish that everytime you hear it, it be spoken only with love.

Waiting room

I am at peace in the ICU waiting area. For the doc has said the ventilator will be off in an hour. And ammama looks as fine as she can be with a box in her mouth for about 24 hours.

I must not think of how her mouth must be hurting. I must think that the tubes will soon come off. I must think of shifting to the ward.

And I continue to read Zenzele, lovingly re-reading each page for its lyrical beauty.

When suddenly this woman, whose husband is in the adjacent bed, comes to me. "Console my son," she says and leads me to him. "He is very depressed."

I am lost for words. But I say something about his father looking better today, about his improved breathing. And about his eyes opening a little.

But what I really want to say is:

To have blind faith. Blind faith that nothing bad can happen because god is in charge. That letting you down is not an option for god.

That it is important to mouth "it will be fine", even when the oxygen level drops to 20 and your aunt is shaking in fear.

And to remind the patient of the beauty of the world outside, so that they aspire for that chai on the porch in the yellow evenings.

But I only say, "go eat breakfast, you will need all your energy when he is shifted to the ward."

chettu, akka and ammama

Last time aunt went on a trip, she reminded me my responsibilies: chettu, chaapa and ammama.

This time, the fishes are dead, and it will be: chettu, akka and ammama. And aunt didn't remind me this time.

I guess I grew up sometime this year.

My grandmother is sewing the edge of a new cotton saree as I type this. I wake up these days to music: the kut-kut of her knife on the chopping board. For you know it will be a good day.

She battles pain in her wrists, thanks to all those IVs, but doesn't give up. And she is slowly filling in her blouse, that hung loose all these days.

I am enjoying a three day break sleeping, sleeping more, and making maggi for grandparents.


Next on agenda is getting sis to eat two eggs a day. One for her, and one for lil Chintu, whose kicks I cannot feel yet. Come on sweetie, you can do better.

- window siller :-)



chettu: plants; chaapa: fish; akka: elder sis; ammama: grandmother.
brother makes rainbow inside the house.

home

My grandmother today strung tulsi leaves together for grandpa's pooja... slowly, poorly and dropping half the leaves all around.

But after weeks of battling multiple complications, after having seen death stark in her eyes so many times, after marathon hospital shifts and sleepless nights... its our big miracle.

The garland takes me back to No.1, Selliamman Koil Street... I am five again, and its time for grandmother's friday prayers.

Maybe its time to let go

I have been such a useless granddaughter. wrapped in my work, jobs, friends, books. I must have learnt breathing exercises and got her to do it regularly. I must have made her walk. must have rubbed camphor and coconut oil more often. must have done accupressure. must have forced the garlic with milk. must have done more house work.

I must have learnt more about her favourite topics and chatted more with her. I was there all the while and stayed useless. I will regret this all my life. And I deserve it. for I got so much love.

"leave me dear" were the words I heard last from her. that was yesterday evening. she is fading and I am helpless.

I have always vowed to be better after every hospital visit and failed miserably. I prayed hard for a miracle again. I prayed for apollo. apollo that will service her organs with mechanical precision. apollo that saved her from near death once. But yesterday what aunt said made sense. No more pain, no more risks. just peace.

Peace from the IVs pierced all over sprinkly veins. Peace that will smooth her brows. peace from that throbbing cancerous bubble in her throat. a throat narrowed by three surgeries. peace from the dozens of tablets painfully gulped down.

I cannot see her fighting those binds. I cannot see her with the pipe down her throat. her most dreaded fear.

What Uncle Sam said comes back. Accept and let go, only then can they move head. I love you Ammama. I love you. forgive me if you can.

emergency room

The wail of a baby plucked for veins, the scent of surgical spirit, the nagging beeps of central monitors, punctual piercings for vital stats. A doc nods familiarly before he goes back to his book as all children in emergency decide to cry at once. tender veins are found for IVs and fluids gush down them.

I describe our neighbours to grandmum, hoping her eyes stay would alert for a few seconds more. But the drugs take over immediately. A young man with a fractured limb gallantly gives his bed to a delirious 6-month-old. Dengue mosquitoes in the city have been baying for babies.

Few nurses, fewer beds, the doc, sacred ash on forehead, resolutely thumbs his book. Tempers fray, sparks fly, mothers weep, and grandmum coughs up phlegm. the reports finally arrive. Doc surfaces from book. He speaks to grandmum, attempts telugu humour at twilight. Is it always like this, I ask. Only worse, he grins.

Making demigods of docs doesn't seem unfair anymore.