Coming home: Part 2

10 days ago:

“We’re having a satsang from 4 to 7 in the evening,” my Mom said to me on the phone 1 week before I left for my vacation.

“3 hours! Mom, that’s too long,” I exclaimed. “I’ll bring my laptop,” I sighed resignedly. We were discussing my Patti’s 84th birthday celebrations. I’d been looking forward to seeing her after 3 years, and the occasion of her birthday made it all the more special. Only, Maxine is a hardcore scientist, and as a natural corollary she is also something of an atheist. This makes her slightly impatient with long-drawn out rituals and 3-hour long devotional song sessions.

Yesterday:

Mom: Maxine, what are you wearing to Patti’s today?

Me: Jeans and a kurti.

Mom: Wear a salwar suit.

Me: I don’t have any.

Mom: But Jeans to a satsang!

Me: I am wearing a kurti Mom, come on. (In my head-Why does what I wear matter? Who’s going to be looking at me anyway!)

Mom: People will be watching you. You need to dress appropriately.

My head: Bloody hell. Mind-reader!

Me (the person): I am going to shower.

I emerged 20 minutes later to find a brand new salwar suit laid out on the bed.

Mom: Wear this.

Me: Where’d you get it?

Mom: I bought it for you a few months ago.

Me: *Shakes head in amazement at diabolical level of planning and wears salwar suit.*



2 hours later:

Patti: Maxine, I’ve been waiting for you. I am so glad you are here.

Maxine: *too choked to speak*

Patti: I saw you on the live webcast, they gave you the PhD. I didn’t move away for 3 hours. I was waiting for you. They called your name out. I am so proud of you. Congratulations, Double doctor.

Maxine: *too choked to speak*

Patti: I didn’t think I’d see you again. But you are here, finally. I am so pleased.

Maxine: *Something in my contacts, too choked to speak*

Maxine, as you can tell is somewhat sentimental about her grandmother. Read this, for more on this wonderful, wonderful lady. Seeing her and spending time with her yesterday was something I can’t truthfully describe. Suffice it to say my heart is full. And my contacts had something in them all evening.

I took stock of my Patti. In spite of her illness and obvious weakness, She looked cheerful and happy. She’d lost weight and her cheeks were sunken. The lady I knew, the indefatigable woman with boundless enthusiasm, always properly attired in a 9-yards saree was nowhere to be seen, except in the occasional flashes of energy in her eyes when she spoke of the people she doted on. From time to time, she lapses into a strange alternate reality of her own. A place where she often goes, to meet the ones she loves and misses. She tells us of the grandchildren she met only yesterday, the ones she cooked for last week, the son who came to see her 2 days ago. My Mother and my uncle (her primary care-giver) seemed to look upon her flights of fantasy with indulgence. For some reason, (and maybe it is because I don’t see her regularly) it made me intensely sad. After all, she is but projecting what she wants. On a more philosophical level, at least she is getting it, I guess.

I also took stock of my Patti’s life style. I’d heard from my Mother that she has good days and bad ones. An oxygen cylinder next to her bed, provided firm testament to the bad days, when she struggled to take a breath. Packets of adult diapers reminded me she no longer had the advantage of retaining the basic dignity we all take for granted. A catheter bag hanging on her wheel chair enforced the reality that she barely controlled any of her faculties any more. Neither her body. nor her mind.

I sat next to my Patti all evening long. She held my hand loosely in hers. We listened to the satsang together. The people singing were from a temple she had frequented all her life. They took it in turns to sing. Maybe it was because the hardened cynic in me had all but melted into a puddle of mush after seeing her, but I quite enjoyed it. They sang melodiously and with plenty of variation in their song selection. A Tukaram abhang washed away the final dregs of resistance, and I sang a few bars myself. The story of Sant Tukaram is a poignant one, and one I absolutely love. Born into a lower caste, and poor with it, Tukaram’s love for God led him to compose beautiful verses in praise of his Lord. He faced plenty of resistance for usurping a task traditionally reserved for the higher caste Brahmins. But one when cannot help one self, like Tukaram absolutely could not, one cares not for society and its rules. He continued doing what he was meant to do, and while the romantic version of the story says he was escorted to heaven by the Lord himself, the grainier truth is that he probably paid for his devotion with his life. The ability to do what one loves with no bar is a gift. One that I am lucky enough to possess. But the courage and patience to do what must be done for a loved one is on a good day, a task. On a bad day, it is a burden. The young lady wheeling my Patti around the house, and listening to her petty complaints with patience does things for her that I would find very hard to do.  My uncle and her Nurse treat her with love and patience and care for her in ways that seem unimportant, but are really quite important. Like braiding her hair nicely so she looks her best. Like cooking her the dishes she asks for on a regular basis. Like holding her hand, and talking soothingly to her on restless nights when she cannot sleep. To me, they are heroes. The satsang wound down well after the 3 hours they had initially allotted. Apparently, Maxine wasn’t the only one who got carried away!

Like any Indian function, nothing is complete without a fabulous meal. My Aunt had cooked up a storm. After my grandmother cut the mango cake I had bought for her, we dug into a South Indian spread. As we prepared to leave for home, my grandmother whispered in my ear, “Come stay with me for a few days!”

“I will”, I promised.