Page 56 of Can This Be Love?

‘Dad has a little bit of a Prem Chopra thing going on,’ she said, patting her head.

‘What? What do you mean by that?’ I asked, confused.

Then it dawned on me; they had shaved Dad’s head for the operation. My eyes were wet but a weak giggle escaped me nevertheless.

A Prem Chopra thing going on! I smiled a weak smile at Mum who returned it.

‘We will be okay, Koochie,’ she said, patting my shoulders.

‘Yes, Mum, we will be,’ I said, putting on the plastic bag sort-of-thing that the guard outside the Neurosurgery ICU passed on to me to put on my shoes.

‘This way, please,’ said Dr Kulkarni. ‘Dr Advani is with him, don’t worry.’ Dr Advani is Dad’s friend from medical school who happens to be on deputation at this hospital. This fact alone had made all the difference to us.

I nodded, already feeling my hands go numb. The doors of the ICU opened and with them opened a whole new world. I took in my surroundings, not really believing what my eyes were seeing. There were about ten beds in the ICU, each of them occupied. As my eyes travelled from one bed to the next, I sucked in my breath. Nine very ill people lay in beds, in full view of the nurses and doctors. I almost saw a man with an open brain and instinctively withdrew my eyes before I really registered any details. Another man seemed to be repeatedly having fits. One by one, my eyes scanned each bed, a shudder passing through me each time, along with a whiff of relief that the very sick person was not Dad. I was, with all my heart, dreading the moment I would spot Dad.

Which I soon did. I was surprised that I was not surprised. Or upset. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, albeit with a heavily-bandaged head.

‘Dad,’ I said, softly, when I walked up to him. Advani Uncle nodded and mouthed, ‘He is absolutely fine,’ at me.

Dad’s eyes fluttered open a few seconds later. I bent low but Advani Uncle gently pushed me away.

‘Did you meet him?’ were the first words Dad uttered after coming out of the surgery.

Did you meet him?

It took me a moment to understand that he was asking about Rajeev. All of that already seemed like it had happened a million years ago, in a different, faraway world.

‘Uh … no ... no, I did not,’ I said, bending closer to him.

‘Do you want to meet him?’ he asked, closing his eyes now.

I paused.

‘No,’ I said quietly.

Dad said nothing; his eyes remained closed but a slow, gentle smile gradually spread across his face. I smiled too.

Life, you know, is funny. Funny in its own way. We were in the Neurosurgery ICU, Dad had just had surgery and we were both smiling. We were smiling because, as Dad had hoped, I had not crossed the Rubicon.

4.30 a.m.

This has been the longest night in my life.

It’s weird, you know, how life comes full circle. You don’t know when or how it happens but one day, you find yourself worrying about your parents, taking care of them and trying your best to do whatever you can for their comfort.

You have known all along that no one will ever really love you the way your parents do and then, one day, you realize that no one will ever love your parents as much as you do.

6.00 a.m.

With the relatives gone, there were a hundred things to be sorted: Mum’s clothes, food, toothbrush, soap, Dad’s medicines, who would stay with Dad for the night and once he was out of the OT … the list was tiringly endless and my brain was already exhausted. Mum and I were sitting outside the ICU when a doctor came to us with some documents. I looked away in disgust. Another set of papers that spoke about worst-case situations that I did not even want to think about.

‘Please sign these,’ he said, looking first at Mum and then at me.

I groaned silently. I looked at Mum and she shook her head; she was not going to sign anything that discounted the hospital of responsibility should anything happen to Dad. As the doctor looked expectantly at me, all the weight of the last couple of hours fell on me like a brick and tears began to sting my eyes. Angrily, I willed them to dry up.

This was so not the time for a meltdown.

It was then that an odd yearning seared through me. Very few single children will admit it, but almost all of us deeply feel the void of not having a brother or a sister to fight, play or share our lives and parents with. I felt this so strongly in that moment that another wave of tears was ready to burst forth. What would I not give to have a sibling to share this with? Maybe he/she would be the stronger one and would happily sign documents without batting an eyelid since the mere sight of the papers was reducing me to tears.

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