There he goes again, calling out my name. After 60 odd years of marriage and half a dozen children in the interim, you’d think he’d at least call me by the name my parents gave me. But no, all that he has ever called me is “intha”. I’m not going to get up to see what he wants. You see, it’s been a day since he died.
I have been asked to sit in my room and think about my husband, for the next four months and 10 days as per our religious law. Nevertheless, I’d rather lie down and get the sleep that has been systematically robbed from me since the day he was diagnosed with a cancerous growth in his liver.
How many years has it been since I got up before dawn to say my prayers and then gently check to see if my husband had survived the night? Ever since I heard the nurse say, “Amma, don’t worry your husband will be discharged tomorrow.”
It seems like I’ve been administering someone else’s life forever. There were days I wished we’d pass away together, if for nothing more than to savour the freedom from choice — of medicines, hospitals, doctors’ diagnoses and the eternal question of where the next tranche of money would come to pay all these bills.
Nobody asks a caregiver where the care comes from — but they are pretty sure we would fulfil the ‘give’ part of our contract. I thought I had waved goodbye to potties and nappies after my youngest child grew up — but I simply had to graduate to a more adult version when my husband fell sick.
At first, he was a celebrity patient — everyone wanted to visit the man who had earned double Masters degrees and a doctorate in Oriental studies. I was the standard eight student who made all those cups of tea to be served to the distinguished scholars and (sometimes) professional rivals who came by. Then the tide of visitors started ebbing — entire days went by without anyone wondering what the cancer-stricken genius was up to. I knew he was hurting, but he was too proud to admit it.
So I’d be his cheerleader — reading out the good news from the newspaper (a tough task in itself), bathe his increasingly hairless body and dust him with talcum powder, bring out his best suits and polish his six pairs of ‘work shoes’, even though we both knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
The children were brave at first. Then they became conspicuous by their presence. My two daughters-in-law could never seem to get the tickets required to travel, and my daughters were too busy with their children’s school schedules. When they did come, we’d both be terrified of the break in our routine of medicines, sleep and commiseration.
One day, I’ll remember the man who entered and left my life on his own will, teaching me how to cover books, write letters, fill out a cheque in English and learn to drive our Morris Minor. But for now, sleep awaits.
