The Cleaning-Staff

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Time in Hospital runs unusually; it is hard to keep track of it. We are always confused on dates and times, and constantly debate on what-happened-on-which-date. I even won a bet of 1500 with mum today—I actually made the bet to buy myself a headphone.

The debate was about what day of week today was. She claimed today to be Tuesday; she wouldn’t even agree when I showed it in my mobile; she blamed me that I had manipulated the data to fool her—which I didn’t, I swear I never do that. I knew she was wrong, so I took the advantage and set-up the bet, and the winner was decided by the working staff—who always cleans our room at daytime. She is a very funny lady, cracks joke here and there, and laughs a lot. Her sister also works here at night-time, but she is exactly opposite to her sister. She is usually rude, swears often, and doesn’t seem to care much people.

I remember when I was sleeping, the rude-sister came to end her duty by cleaning the room for the last time in the morning. She shouted and woke me up and asked me to put the things that were lying on the floor in the table. I did it whatever she said generously. I looked at her and felt pity for what a miserable life she said; I didn’t get offend or angry this time for her rude remarks like the other days.

‘She has a very difficult life,’ jolly-sister told us yesterday. She told us about her family, her struggles and the life she was living to feed her children. Her husband died when they were getting started on their lives. With two daughters to care, she didn’t get any help from her husband’s family side; so, she started living alone and working to feed and educate them by herself. She comes around 9 in the evening and leaves at 9 in the morning. But she doesn’t go home, she goes to her another work where she works whole daytime. She hardly sleeps, doesn’t spend time with other, but she just works—works to hide her pain and ease her upcoming burden of marrying her daughters.

For some reason, she didn’t look that much of rude today; maybe because we could see her pain this time. Mum had made some tea; she denied when offered but I am sure she felt something when mum offered her. She was laughing a little after, even shared her some incidents like a friend.

I have no idea with what pain people in this world has gone through, with what struggle they are fighting with their fate, with what courage they fake the smile, but I am certain about one thing: We, humans, are amazing. All we need to do is: try to search for what is hidden inside, and all the marvels start coming out. 

Mum's Story

Tuesday, March 13, 2018

Yesterday, I walked about 10 KM. I went to HP Customer Care Center, that was named “Afroserver”—I don’t know why they had to fancy about it. I bought my laptop right after Tihar ended from Bareilley, but after I returned home, I realized my laptop was deaf—it’s microphone didn’t work. Since there are no HP center in Nepal, I thought of bringing the laptop with me with a hope that I may get a chance to go to HP center and repair it—which I did yesterday. I think I left the hospital around 3 in the afternoon after Mum had finished telling her stories and slept.

She tells a lot stories: stories of her childhood, her family, her struggles, her loneliness, her broken aims, her sufferings, but never I have heard anything jolly from her—it makes me question sometimes, ‘Is the God whom she prioritizes more than anything even herself biased with her and plays with her?’. I asked her about this; she got offended and told me to never to raise a question against GOD since God is trying to judge her threshold of belief.

Yesterday, she was particularly telling me about her Dad and his wives. My grandfather had married one and eloped with the other. Yes, I was also baffled when she said that he didn’t marry the next one—something like a living girlfriend. My mother’s mother was elder, but after my grandfather brought his girlfriend home, she took in charge of everything; the elder family had to suffer. The elder served the new one as if they were the servants of that family. The elder family had three sisters and four brothers, but the new mother had one son which was troublesome enough for the elder family.

She particularly remembers why she used to hide Chappati under the pillow at night, because in the morning, it used to be her Step-mother’s turn to make food and she used to be biased with the elder family regarding food. She told me that once she heard the younger family talk about killing them, but, due to mighty grace, nothing of such sort happened. After hearing these stories, I think I have started to trust Hindi Movies that they do represent some untold stories lying underneath and hidden in our society.

My grandfather died a long time ago due to Kidney failure. When he was suffering in death-bed, hoping for someone to give Kidney, Mum said that he apologized with my mother’s mother for everything he did. My grandmother had gone through worst time in her life after the younger one came in. He used to beat her almost every night, never value her for what she was and what she did.

She is still alive, maybe about to hit 90 soon. She is quite happy now; living a quite contend old life. She has everyone looking after her. She celebrates her birthday like a little girl: receives presents from her sons and her grandchildren, and cuts cakes. She lives her whole day by listening and telling stories. Her Daughters visit her quite often. She has Diabetes, but aunties have taken good care of her.

On the other hand, my mother’s step-mother died a month ago. My mother said that she died the most horrifying death a person could die. Her skin had all decayed; she couldn’t see properly, she had to use her fingers to open her eyes; she was lying in bed since years; she couldn’t remember people or anything as she had Alzheimer—it was as if, death would have been more peaceful than living. Also, the stepbrother is suffering in his life. His both sons have died due to drinking habit; he has two widows in his house; he has Diabetes and Hypertension; no job; no family; and solely, living his life on edge.

Whenever I think of this story, I start believing Karma more. In the best of our times, we devalue all those things we have: we hurt people, kill them alive, make them afraid of themselves. But what do we get in return, a terrible and horrifying soul. What better could it be if we chose to terminate our greed, our self-imagined ego, and live a life with humility, love, mutual understanding and respect. Even if we won’t have fortunate future, we at least will have our loved ones by our side to ameliorate the wounds of fate. Maybe that’s what keeps giving my mother enough strength to cope up with her pain—she has us.

Adapting to Change

Sunday, March 11, 2018, 3:34 PM

I was sleeping but could hear everything. It must have been around 5 or 6 in the morning, when I was hearing neighbors-kind of conversations—it was depressing. It was my mother and two other Nepali ladies, who had slept in our room; since in their PVT room, more family members had come—Bloody relatives. I wonder sometimes how doctor figures out the actual patient among so many lethargic bodies. But, I don’t think it will matter much even if wrong patient gets injected with medicines, if I am not wrong that’s why they are there for: free medicines.

There were not only two ladies but a grown-man of age around 45-50 too. He also belonged to that more-family-member family. He had back-pain and couldn’t sleep on the floor just like the oldies; so, he slept in the bed in which Dad slept the night before.

Dad left yesterday at noon when I was in the market buying kitchen-stuff. Yes, we now have a kitchen in our room amid our beds and below a ‘Humidifier’—I don’t know what it does, but that’s what it is named; I pray it has nothing to do with fire-alarm. We have every stuff to cook food—induction cooker, utensils, rice, variety of cereals, spices, everything a kitchen has.

Mum cooks, and I make sure she doesn’t do any carelessness in her food, which she does mostly. She has been quite well along, since I can see the difference within a day. But she believes she has not improved a bit. Her dosages of medicines have increased, and some new medicines are added. Dr. Samar hasn’t shown up yet. However, his assistant came once. Nurses come and go; the only good thing about them is that they are sisters, nothing else.

When I got out yesterday, in the morning, I was stunned to look at the roads. It was not concrete the night before. But, in one night the half of the road was new. And when I went outside today-morning, I was again stunned, since another half was done. The more astounding thing was, I had no sight of any equipment, it was done without a hint. This is a miracle for every Nepali Kid who was told Melamchi-project would solve every drinking-problem soon. I read it in my class 6 social book, and I saw my brother reading same line last year.

I have been going to a shop near-by. The owner looks like that of Kunal dai; he used to rent in our home ages back and we were very good buddies. Kunal dai had this attitude of jolly, carefree and was very tactful in conversation, but this owner is an irony to him. He looks rude, and when asked for a thing, he gives a look as if I had asked for his Kidneys.  

I observed only today that my room has semi-hemisphere shape. And on its curved wall, there are three windows, which gives us the sight of a “Muslim Graveyard”. A graveyard next to Hospital—how much of comfort-seeker we have become, Good Lord!

Journey Begins

Saturday, March 10, 2018, 1:08 PM

I woke up lying in a stinky bed, smelling of medicines and syringes. For a second, I was unconscious; I didn’t know where I was. I had a dream of combat-shooting, I was armed with SMG; and, was carrying a medical kit, running in the midst of heavy firing to my injured comrades. But when I woke up, there was just this stinky bed with white sheets and a red blanket. I grabbed my phone and unlocked it—it was 5 in the morning. Then, I heard someone burping beside me, I turned and saw my mother suffering in another bed, and I remembered everything. We are in Lucknow, India, in Samra Hospital. We arrived here late night yesterday. Doctor Samar—our family doctor—had gone home when we arrived, so we stayed here in a Hospital room.

I looked up, there was dad swiping his fingers through this mobile with a worried face searching for at least something jolly in this interminable melancholy. Mum, however, was trying to talk-out her pain. 5 in the morning, they were talking about their fate. I got-off the bed, and they asked me to get fresh since a long day awaits ahead.

‘Fresh’—the word my mother claims she never understood. Migraine, Clinical Depression, olfactory tumor, and now, Hyperplastic Polyp—even the word is so horrifying to write, I can never understand the pain she may be having. She lost around 10kg in three months. Not having a headache is a fairy-tale for her. I don’t remember when she didn’t complain of restlessness. I haven’t seen her eating food of her choice. What I have grown-up used to is—she taking medicines, medicines of different sizes, shapes, and colors. She had an operation recently, about couple of weeks ago in Delhi.  This was her 3^rd operation. She will have another next month. And another, after six months. But now, we aren’t here for operation. We are here since Dr. Samar thinks—she is vulnerable to other prone diseases like hepatitis and jaundice.

Around 10, Dr. Samar came to our room, quipped with medical-materials, which I have no idea of. He looked at my mother and with jolly face told her that she will be all fine. These were the best words we came through in the whole morning except my joke—I seriously can crack joke during difficult times. He asked us to stay here for a week. That certainly spoiled some of the joy since dad has to leave, he is a busy man; he is the president of Mahakali Yatayat. He has to be present for his conference and meetings in Kathmandu, Chitwan, and Delhi. But this is not worrisome.    

What worrisome is—my mother’s lifestyle. She is a religious person. For her, culture matters more than her life; and God more than anyone. She doesn’t eat food made by others. She doesn’t drink water touched by others. We pleaded her to drink at least Mineral Water. She drinks it now; otherwise, we would have to search for a handpump in Lucknow. She is ascetic for her beliefs. I don’t think these operations can make her change her beliefs. And regarding food, we are thinking of making a corner of this hospital-room a kitchen where she can cook by herself and eat. She was never like this before. She used to be unorthodox and wanted to live a life beyond the rules of society. She tells stories that changed her after she got married. She is a great-story teller. I have grown used to her stories. I know a great deal of story-tellers, but never across a better one than her.

A nurse came, probably of age 23-24(I am sure, if asked she won’t say more than 20), asked me to buy some medicines. She then hanged the saline water, injected few syringes, and pushed her back to her bed to lie down. I could see how unwilling and compelled she was. She lay down with a fake smile, trying to hide her feelings.

There is a lot to come and see in coming days—more syringes, medicines, saline-waters, doctor-visits, nurse visits, hesitations, struggles, pains, but her stories and my jokes. I better keep myself ready for everything.