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.