Page 57 of Can This Be Love?

‘I wish I were not the only child!’ I said ruefully, a little too loudly in the silent room.

There was a pause before three sombre voices responded. ‘You’re not.’

I knew who the voices belonged to even before I saw them. A weird, inexplicable wave of relief was already spreading itself through my being as I turned around and saw Pitajee, Anu and Purva crowding at the door. Without another word, and without even looking at me, Purva stepped forward and took the pen from my hands.

‘Papers, Doc?’ he said, looking at the doctor and not even glancing in my direction.

Pitajee, who has always had such an easy camaraderie with Mum that sometimes even I have been jealous, stood on my right, his arm around her. Anu, with an arm around my waist, was on my left and Purva, with the pen in his hands, was in front of me.

With Dad in the Neurosurgery ICU, it was possibly the darkest hour of my life. But as with each dark hour that life had, of late, thrown at me, my closest friends had rallied around, ready to offer a steadying hand, should I falter.

A couple of weeks ago, I had called off my wedding to Purva without even giving him a proper reason. Six hours ago, I had travelled across Delhi to meet Rajeev.

6.08 a.m.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the doctor, looking seriously at Mum and then at me. ‘Only immediate family members can sign these papers.’

Purva’s pen was about to touch paper when, on hearing the words of the doctor and very familiar with hospital protocol, he paused.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. And then Mum spoke. ‘Purva will sign the papers, Doctor,’ she said in a low voice that trembled just a little bit. ‘He is family.’

I looked at Mum, her eyes were now red and wet. Anu sniffed away a tear and I hugged her sideways. Purva, his face grave and serious, bent low to sign the document. I have always loved the pretty, neat cursive of Purva’s hand and almost mechanically peeped over to see him write.

Purva had signed and typed his full name in capital letters. Just below that, he was asked to fill in his relationship with the patient.

I saw Purva’s pen not hesitate for even an instant as he printed three letters.

SON.

Sometimes you want him to scream at you. Sometimes you need him to be red-faced with sheer anger. Sometimes you want him to tell you that he hates you.

Instead. Three simple letters. Written with earnestness. The next instant, I had shot out of the room, my face wet with tears that had been threatening to spill over since I’d first heard of Dad’s surgery. Guilt choked me breathless and shame made me blind. I ran down the corridor that was teeming with patients, doctors and nurses, brushing aside people who came in my way, tears cloud

ing my vision. I ran the fastest my tired legs could carry me and stopped only when I had come out of the hospital.

I sat down on the stairs, my face in my hands, and cried bitterly. The tears that seemed to begin from somewhere deep inside me, where it hurt so much that the pain was unbearable, would not stop.

23

23 May 2013, 10.00 a.m.

Dad was now well settled in the private room. Family, friends and relatives had all been calling up as news of Dad’s dramatic surgery spread far and wide. With Dad out of the ICU and danger, Mum was only too happy to relate the whole sequence of events to anyone willing to listen. There were, of course, some modifications. For instance, the time between the MRI scan and the surgery was reduced from four hours (the real number) to forty-five minutes (the more dramatic number), from two doctors wheeling Dad into the OT, the number theatrically shot up to eleven doctors and – lo and behold – fourteen nurses. If the latest version was to be believed, it would seem that the entire hospital had been in an uproar and Mum was just about managing to keep everything in control.

I found myself shaking my head but smiling nevertheless.

6.00 p.m.

‘Subdural hematoma?’ asked the nurse, looking at Dad’s chart and readying him for another antibiotic injection. Purva, who seemed to know every doctor in the world, had made sure that Dad was getting five-star treatment from everyone, ranging from the head of the department to the nurse.

Dad nodded his head, which at least looked considerably lighter, now that the helmet-like bandage had been taken off.

‘Today is Monday?’ she asked, most casually.

‘No, I think it’s Tuesday,’ Dad corrected her.

‘So you are a doctor too?’

‘Yes,’ said Dad, rolling up his sleeves, ready for the injection.

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