This short story was a part of Mono No Aware, an international anthology published by The CultureCult Press Team, that celebrates the delicate and fleeting nature of beauty and sadness.

The paperback may be purchased from Lulu:

https://www.lulu.com/shop/dibyasree-nandy/mono-no-aware/paperback/product-gj8djzr.html

 

Those cliched words of consolation…a few tight hugs…some sad smiles…you patiently bear them all, as the last few guests trickle out. It’s almost dusk and you begin to feel itchy. The extreme heat and sultriness of Kolkata in June do not make things easier. To add to the discomfort, you chose to wear a tant saree today, one with an intricate zari border. It was Ma’s favourite – a fine handloom cotton in lime-green with a mauve-and-gold border. Baba had secretly bought this for Ma on their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. And you had been his accomplice.

Your mouth curves into a wan smile as you remember the hushed exchanges Baba and you shared on the phone. Or Baba’s admiring glance as Ma draped it and stepped out of the room, looking ever so radiant and wholesome. Back then, how did Baba remember dates, days and events so well, you wonder. Not a single birthday or anniversary or even your exam schedule missed! So difficult for an outsider to believe this today, you sigh!

You thought it was only fitting that you wore this today.

Baba is surely smiling down on me, you muse.

Finally, all the visitors leave and the porch is empty. You exhale in relief. Pulling up one of the white plastic chairs strewn all over the place, you plonk down, wiping beads of sweat from your forehead with a hand towel. You observe the last whorls of smoke rising from the incense sticks and dissipating, leaving a lingering fragrance in their wake. Almost like Baba’s fast fading presence. Today is the thirteenth day since he left. As the only child, you’ve done all that was needed to ensure he has a smooth passage to the other side. The prayer rituals, the offerings, the social obligations, the feast, the donations – all in the hope that he would be set free. Free from the agony of the past several years, which only you have witnessed. And agonised over, along with him. It’s a different thing that he never realised any of it. He was blissfully oblivious to all his actions, thoughts and words. Like a small child, who needed to be guided, fed, washed. One, who needed to cling to his mother. Which, in this case, was you – Baba’s daughter-turned-friend, mentor, guide, mother and nurse, all rolled into one. The fulcrum of his rusting bodily machine – the sum of his being. The port that always calmed his storm. Never mind that you yourself were gradually disintegrating…fracturing…splintering. Heck, where was the time to worry about yourself, or your needs, or well-being?!

“Didi, please have this tea now…you look deathly pale and tired.” Lokkhi, your girl Friday, hands you a piping hot mug of strong ginger tea, just when your afternoon craving begins to surface.

“May God bless you, Lokkhi…may you marry a richie rich boy soon and fly out to Mumbai to meet Shahrukh Khan!” You call out after her, to which she turns around and makes a mock show of anger. Marrying a rich man and meeting King Khan are the only two dreams this twenty-year-old harbours, as she often tells you.

You send Lokkhi and her sister – an extra help just for today – to clear up the clutter. The thick garlands of jasmine you hung around Baba’s large photo frame in the morning, have begun to lose their freshness. A few petals of the waxy white rajanigandha stems in the vase are drooping, too. You blame the scorching weather for this and make a mental note of removing the withered petals and flowers at night.

The caterers and venue decorators leave after packing their things, offering a few comforting words to you. They had all known and respected Baba in better times. Now, they feel pity for you – a single, reasonably good-looking woman in her late thirties, with a big house, considerable resources, and no one to call her own! In fact, wasn’t it Madan Babu, the electrician, who reported the first lapse to you?

“Didibhai, Porimal Babu had to pay us 3k for all the rewiring work we did. But now he is refusing, he says that he already paid us.” Madan Babu approached you six years ago, his head hung low, with a face reflecting deep embarrassment and misplaced guilt. “Didibhai, I’ve been working for you all for the past twenty years, do you think I would cheat you for a measly 3k? Even Boudi used to trust me so much,” he continued in a crestfallen voice, referring to your mother.

As if on cue, you recalled how the owner of the neighbourhood grocery store had sent over his errand boy just the week before, to deliver home a few purchases – Baba had paid for them but left them at the store itself. Just like how he once woke up after his afternoon siesta and headed straight to the washroom for his morning ablutions. You found it strange – Baba was a man commanding the highest yardstick of mindful engagement. His friends, colleagues, relatives, acquaintances, all swore by his stellar memory, his integrity and sensitivity. You couldn’t figure these episodes – things just didn’t seem to add up.

Why is Baba behaving so differently, so unpredictably? Should I be worried? Are these red flags for a bigger issue…something that is brewing and probably just waiting to erupt?

Your mind was like a whirlpool where numerous nagging voices, doubts and apprehensions eddied and fizzled out, none of which you could harness or process. Add to it, Baba had become so temperamental, bordering on the unreasonable, you rued. He demanded undue attention, and threw tantrums whenever his demands were not met. And then there were times when he simply clammed up within a shell, refusing to communicate with you or anybody who wouldn’t play up.

You were at your wit’s end. This was the first time you felt your mother’s absence so acutely – had she been around, she would surely have found a way out. You had watched in terror as the dreaded carcinogenic cells ate into her beautiful, healthy body, one tissue at a time, until she begged and cried to be set free of this torture. As her primary care giver, you oscillated between deep sorrow, frustration, anger, and an overwhelming feeling of defeat. Once she left, you invested yourself entirely in taking care of Baba, keeping him company, and attending to all his mundane chores and needs. Your own life unwittingly became entwined with his, and followed a set trajectory. Until these hurdles appeared seemingly out of nowhere and threatened to throw you completely off-gear.

A few more such minor but tell-tale incidents and you were ready to hit the panic button. That is when Sayan, your childhood sweetheart and long-time fiance, suggested a visit to the doctor. Initially, Baba was completely indignant.

“Am I the only one who forgets things in this house? Didn’t you forget to add salt to the gravy yesterday?” He cornered you in a surprisingly defensive tone. “And what about Sayan? Didn’t he misplace his Aadhar card during his last trekking expedition? Did we take him to the doctor?”

After days of cajoling and some very tactful handling, you finally managed to convince Baba. He tagged along with you grudgingly to a renowned city psychiatrist. A battery of diagnostic tests later, the specialist confirmed your worst fears.  Baba had, indeed, fallen prey to the dreaded web of dementia. His condition could, at best, be controlled and monitored, but not arrested or reversed.

The world around you seemed to collapse. You felt as if someone had pulled the rug from beneath your feet. All these years of relentless effort to preserve Baba’s physical and emotional well-being had suddenly been set at naught. The prognosis made you realise how fragile Baba had actually been. How vulnerable his mind was, beneath his show of steely resolve and exemplary discipline. And right from that moment you started your daily battle with this silent killer. To resuscitate Baba’s ailing mind….to breathe life into his moribund days.

To say it was an uphill task, would be an understatement. No amount of internet browsing, talking to counsellors or reaching out to friends prepared you for the actual situation. Baba’s mood swings were frequent, intense, and totally unpredictable. You soon realised his memory was playing truant, too. The nurse you recruited through a local domestic services agency, absented more than she attended. You refused the elite post of the departmental HOD at school – something you had been coveting and working towards, for years now. With the colossal responsibility you had at hand, your moral compass didn’t allow you to put the careers of the young adults at jeopardy, poised as they were, on the cusp of competitive examinations.

Baba’s memory loss and cognitive degeneration happened faster than you anticipated. He remembered bits and pieces from his own childhood, and some from yours. But never as a seamless whole. He often addressed you as Ma. At such times, his tone seemed coated with an endearing tenderness and affection, which was completely missing in his other interactions. What pained you the most was the lack of communication…your inability to reach out to him, and fight the condition together. This was his lone battle, and he was already feeling trounced.

You shower and change into a simple, comfortable mulmul saree and gather your hair in a tight bun. As you fix a black butterfly clutch to hold the bun, your eyes fall on the elaborate silver hairpin nestled inside the dressing table drawer – Sayan’s last gift to you. He had visited Ahmedabad on an official tour and had picked it up for your dark cascading tresses. The stem had a dainty minakari pattern and two tiny bells attached to one end. You loved sporting it and watching your colleagues despair over your good fortune (a good catch, as they remarked in jest). Now, the pin is only a relic…a funereal shroud…which hides a cache of cruel memories. Memories that do not sadden you anymore but evoke a long, unhurried sigh from you.

“Mandira, don’t you think we’ve been over this a number of times already?” Sayan’s voice clearly mirrored his exasperation. The deep furrows bunched on his forehead, only added to his impatience, his eagerness to step out of this morass of a relationship, and move on to cleaner, greener pastures. One without the shadow of disease and death looming over them.

“Do you even realise how long it has been? Of my waiting patiently and endlessly for your personal troubles to end? Craving a few hours that we could call our own? For a time when we could hold hands or go for a movie, or even have a decent conversation, minus the rush to attend to your father? Frankly, I don’t remember, Mandira. First it was Aunty and her cancer. And now Uncle with his mental disease. Besides, my parents are not growing any younger. They wish to see me settled before it’s too late.”

“My personal problems, Sayan? Like, really? When did our problems become disparate, and personal?”

You were stung, partially by his insensitive words, but more by his urgency, his finality, to end the alliance. Seventeen years of association disowned and discarded, like frayed and faded clothes. Later, of course, some common friends had squealed – Sayan and his family were apprehensive of marriage with a girl whose mother died of cancer and father was a lunatic! Involuntarily, you had sighed, in relief. Your parents always had your back, didn’t they – this time they saved you from marrying an insensitive prick!

The months and years, thereafter, had become particularly distressing for you. Baba tended to become violent – often he would throw whatever he was holding at the person before him, including you. It could be a spoon, a plate, the TV remote, a medicine bottle, or even his slippers. The medicine doses had reached optimum levels. Your cook left. And so did the nurse. The few relatives you had, had already distanced themselves from you all. After all, who wanted to be associated with the demented? Only Lokkhi stood by you. Her quiet, comforting presence and gentle voice acted like a balm to your bruised, fatigued soul.

Four months before today, you had taken Baba for his daily bath. The first few days after the nurse left, you felt like a worm doing this. You tried to finish this torture as quickly as possible. Later, it had become routine for both of you. You had ceased to feel ashamed or embarrassed, and treated the process with clinical detachment. For Baba, it did not matter – he was beyond caring now, which ironically, made things a tad easier for you. That morning, as you sat him down on a stool and began to lather his body with his prescribed medicated soap, he abruptly thrust one hand forward. You looked around to check if he wanted something, maybe the towel. Or was there soap in his eyes? Before you could turn back and ask him, his emaciated hand groped you while he sported this amused, impish smile on his face. It took you a few seconds to realise what had happened. And process it. By then, Baba was already jutting out his other soap-smeared hand towards you. You shoved it away in sheer disgust and shrieked!

“Baba, what’s wrong with you? I’m your daughter, for God’s sake! Have you completely lost it?! No wonder Sayan dumped me. Who marries a girl whose father gropes her!”

For a couple of minutes, the world blanked out for you. You stood up, shaking. A rush of bile rose within you. Try as you might, you could not bring yourself to finish the bath or help him out of the tub. You rushed out of the bathroom, tears blinding your vision, and threw yourself on the bed, crying bitterly. You felt hopelessly defeated – at the end of your tether – with not a soul you could share your woes with. The man you revered…the one who helped you take your first steps…the thorough gentleman who was your greatest role model…now lay warped and wasted, with zero control over his reflexes. Or the meanderings of his mind.

Did he think I was Ma? People do say I bear any uncanny resemblance with her…

A thousand doubts and questions swirled in your mind until you thought your brain would explode. Umpteen visits to the doctor and the most extensive digital research hadn’t prepared you for this.

You didn’t realise how long you lay like that. In the evening you saw Baba, looking clean and happy, sitting in his room, trying out various combinations on his favourite Rubik’s cube. You were surprised, but relieved. You wondered who had stepped in after you fled the scene. Lokkhi never uttered a single word, nor looked at you askance. She went about her work as usual, leaving you with a deeply grateful heart. At that moment did you make a silent wish for Baba, to be relieved of this ignominious existence? To be released from this daily parody of life, where death looked like an infinitely more dignified and desirable option?

Being a daughter, it was an excruciatingly painful step for you. However, that evening you decided to cross the Rubicon. While the past few years were spent praying for Baba’s recovery, that evening onwards you started pleading to the universe for his deliverance. It sliced through your heart initially. But you knew it was much needed…and perhaps, long overdue? You and Baba had, together, gathered a lifetime of love and precious memories to cherish. Perhaps it was time to bid adieu to him and soak in the beauty and warmth of those fond remembrances?

Someone up there was probably listening and had decided to surprise you with that rare wish fulfilment, you mused later. Baba left a few months later, peacefully in his sleep. As you dressed him up in the immaculate silk dhoti-kurta set for his final journey, you couldn’t help but smile at the innocence and calm that suffused his face. You were, once again, reminded of Baba’s oft-quoted term, Mujo – the constant state of impermanence. And the beauty of this flux…the calm in this chaos…that proved to be an instrument of liberation for you both.

The last thirteen days have been a farrago of emotions for you. Intense soul-searching. Frequent guilt trips. Denial and anger. Regret, on various counts. Regret for not having done enough for Baba. For having lost patience, become irritable, for often having wanted a way out of this hopeless mess. Strangely, however, this very emotional whiplash has been a source of solace and succour for you. Issues like death, disease and grief which you were always terrified to address, now stare you in the face. Your heart has peeled and processed them all, one torment at a time. And at the end of it, you’ve felt decidedly lighter and unburdened. The realisation that Baba is now in a painless realm has done wonders to your battered soul. And with acceptance, has come healing. You’ve learnt to be less harsh on yourself.

With an effort you rise, and pour some ghee into the lamp placed before Baba’s photograph. The flame burns brighter, making him look more radiant and confident. This is how you wish to remember Baba. Not in terms of his final, nebulous days, but with memories of the joyous, fulfilling moments you both shared. These happy memories have helped stitch back your heart. Kintsugi is now your mantra for life. You realise that the love you received from him will stay ingrained in your heart forever – always encouraging, guiding, and inspiring you to fly free and soar high!

Baba’s little girl, you wrap your tired arms around yourself in a tight embrace as you feel Baba’s warm, beatific smile wash over you.

 

Glossary:

Baba, Ma – father, mother

Rajanigandha – tuberose

Didi/ Didibhai – endearing term for elder sister

Dhoti-kurta – Indian traditional attire for men

Boudi – sister-in-law

Tant, mulmul – types of handloom fabric

Saree – traditional Indian attire for women

Babu – respectful term for a gent