Authors: Minakshi Chaudhry
A World Within (20 page)
When the brain is not ticking you are always alone, no matter how many people are around you. His phone calls to us have nearly ended; earlier he would call several times a day. His conversations with Mamma have reduced to minimal and it shows that the disease is catching up with him.
When we would ask him, ‘Why is your mood so down?’ he would say, ‘I do not know.’ We just let go, we never realized what it really meant till now. The sheer uselessness, futility of life was burdening him. He would keep on repeating ‘
Mann nahin lag raha
[I am bored],’ and we would keep on snapping ‘
Mann lagana parega
[you will have to be busy].’ ‘
Yeh aap ki galti hai
,
TV mein lagao, paper mein lagao
, read something [this is your mistake, try watching some TV, or reading the newspaper].’ Oh how naïve were we! He would try to spend as many hours as possible away from the house and Mamma would irritatingly say, ‘
Jiska mann apne ghar mein nahin lagta uska bahar kya lagega
[if you can’t find something of interest at home, you will not find anything outside].’ It was not inside or outside the house, it was inside his mind, inside the very soul of his. If happiness comes out of this, so does sadness and loneliness. It is just not in your hands.
No one would find anything out of ordinary in his demeanour. If he spoke, which he now rarely does, with an outsider it would be in a normal conversational tone, ‘Hello, how are you? Is everything fine?’ That is all and then he would sit quietly. I am amazed at his ability to act even in the midst of his mental chaos.
I try my best, whenever he comes to my place and when we call friends, that he should be part of that gathering but now he is there and yet not there. I do not even know whether he understands the conversation and my heart sinks as I realize that a few years back he would have actively participated – in any discussion – the lively conversationalist that he was. But now he is so quiet, he just keeps staring at the faces of the people around him.
He begs us to take leave and stay with him, he whispers that something very bad has happened to him and it needs to be sorted out. He is looking for his shoes, purse, glasses, asking about his children who are not present and when would they come to visit him. All he is doing is asking, asking and asking more.
Patient with dementia becomes unhygienic. Same thing happened with Dadoo. A couple of years back he had started hating changing clothes, cutting nails, washing hands and this irritated Mamma to no end.
‘I learnt many bad things about myself,’ Mamma told me one day, ‘It never occurred to me that there will be times when I would not love him. All this
gandagi
[filth] makes me so angry with him that sometimes I hate him for it. I am besides myself with anger when he blows his nose and throws the snot on the floor, wipes his hands on his pyjamas after eating food, picks salad and cut fruit with his dirty hands.’
Giving him clean clothes had become a mission. Sometimes Mamma would hide soiled clothes, sometimes she would dip them in water on some excuse or the other, sometimes she would fight with him and there would be loud arguments whether or not the clothes were dirty.
27 January 2012
On many occasions I feel that I too am suffering from this disease. I know it is not true but yes you do get involved and you find yourself straining unnecessarily on trivial things. Small errands become big tasks as you run hither and thither to find his spectacles, cell phone, shoes and diary. On not being able to find them, you go mad with tension that probably you too are forgetting. You also turn into a smooth liar and many a time lies become truths.
‘Congratulations,’ Dadoo says, I nod happily busy reading the newspaper. He asks, ‘It is a good thing that has happened.’
I nod. He asks, ‘Today is a party?’
I nod again.
He asks, ‘What happened? Why is there a party?’
Earlier I used to be frantic but now I coolly say, ‘Deepak has been promoted.’ He is elated, ‘What is Deepak now?’
I mumble, ‘President of Deutsche Bank.’
‘Is it an important post?’
I nod, ‘Of course, he heads the bank.’
He is excited, ‘You mean in the world?’
I merrily say, ‘Yes, Dadoo, your son is the most important person in the bank.’
And then he goes on, ‘Congratulations. Is there a party today?’ But now I change gears probably I am bored or I too have forgotten what I said the last time.
‘Rohit has been promoted.’
He is elated, ‘What is he now?’
‘He is an IAS officer.’
‘Oh this is a great news,’ he says beaming, ‘What is he posted?’
I say, ‘Deputy Commissioner.’ (Sometimes I say secretary, sometimes commissioner.)
And then he starts to congratulate me.
This is how you become a smooth liar. A person listening to the conversation will think it is the truth and nothing but the truth. Now I am calm and composed.
‘I must be having five hundred pieces of land.’
I nod.
‘There is one in Shimla too.’
I nod.
‘Where is it?’
‘Tara Devi.’
‘Is there a house there?’
I shake my head, ‘Only land.’
‘Who is taking care of it?’
I say, ‘Lalit and Gopal.’
‘Are they close to you?’
I nod.
‘They are your friends?’
I nod.
‘Who is taking care of it?’
‘Lalit and Gopal. They have built their houses nearby.’
He is relieved, ‘Thank God then it will be safe.’
After a couple of seconds he repeats, ‘Who is taking care of the land?’
‘Lalit and Gopal.’
‘Who are they?’
And this goes on for hours, I try to be patient but once in a while I snap, ‘Dadoo, can you change the topic?’ Not realizing that I have said this so severely that he has forgotten what the topic is and somewhere in his mind the brain cells start shouting,
tension, tension and more tension
.
‘Is there something wrong?’ he quivers.
‘No, Dadoo.’
‘There is something very wrong.’
‘No, Dadoo.’
‘I know there is something wrong,’ he mumbles helplessly. And I curse myself for leading him in this state.
My relationship with Dadoo is indeed a very unique one – a daughter, a friend, a partner. I have fought with him, discussed family matters, politics, life partners, philosophy and death, even his suicidal tendencies.
No one can be a better parent (a father) than him. I do not remember one incident where I had rebelled or done something that he didn’t want me to do. Even when he did not want me to do something it was discussed openly and a way out was found. Not once did he say ‘You cannot’ or ‘You should not’, whether it was my marriage; my career; travelling with friends; a thing I wanted to buy; or my food habits. I was never taught to discriminate between castes, status, wealth – there were just three things: humanity, right and wrong and do what you want to do, which probably meant being happy.
He was not interested in what other professor’s sons and daughters were doing. He never compared us to them, he never nagged us. His motto was not to run after careers – an engineer, a doctor, a bureaucrat – it was always how to live life and do what you wanted to do. In the early 1990s I wanted to be a journalist and when I told this to Dadoo he was on top of the world. Vikram wanted to be a chef and Dadoo supported him wholeheartedly. Deepu wanted to be an engineer; and Dadoo encouraged him just as much.
I remember, I was fifteen when I first got to know about ‘caste’. Having studied in Nigeria, the Indian caste system was not part of our syllabus and neither was it ever discussed at home. During the ragging session in the college I was asked, ‘Do you belong to a lower caste?’ I just had no idea what caste was and I smiled and said, ‘May be’ thinking that it must be a good thing to belong to. I can still recall the dazed expression on that senior’s face. He repeated many times: ‘Are you sure?’ Exasperated, in the end, I truthfully said, ‘I do not know.’ He told me to go and ask my father.
And thus I asked Dadoo: ‘Are we of lower caste?’
Dadoo laughed gaily and robustly, ‘Who told you so?’
‘Some guy in the college.’ I murmured, confused thinking probably it is something funny. We both were sitting on the stairs, he asked me the details. I repeated the conversation, he laughed more gaily and then said, ‘
Meri beti, hum schedule caste nahin hai
[my child, we are not schedule caste]. Tell him that. And also tell him that
hamari koi caste nahin hai
[we do not have any caste].’
The next day the same senior asked me gleefully: ‘What did your father say?’ I told him. Dazed he exclaimed, ‘Are you Christians?’
I was a little agitated, this I was sure of, I was not: Though it did not make much difference to me – Christians, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs. I had read the Bible and the Quran. It was something like reading maths, English, science, something like staying in India, Nigeria, London.
In Nigeria we had to choose between Christianity or Islam as subject. Dadoo was casual about it and said, ‘It is your choice.’ And I did. For two months I attended Christianity classes and for the next two Quran classes and kept hopping from one to the other though I chose Islam for exam.
Now I shook my head vigorously and said that I am a Hindu, he again said, ‘Go and ask your father which caste you belong to.’ I adamantly said, ‘He has said that I have no caste.’
‘Every Hindu is of a caste,’ the senior said. This bewildered me.
Again in the evening I narrated this discussion, this time Mamma was also around and as Dadoo laughed, Mamma irritatingly said, ‘There is nothing funny about this. Tell her
hum Khatri hain
[we are Khatris].’
Oh how funny I found this word ‘Khatri’. I had laughed clutching my stomach, falling from the diwan, it was such a weird word. And to the further irritation of Mamma, Dadoo joined me too. It was only later when we had calmed down from this hilarious outburst that he told me that Hindus were of four main castes and we fell on the third number. I was not very happy about this, the next day I sheepishly told the senior, ‘
Main Khatri hoon
[I am a Khatri].’
I have heard that upbringing of a child is done more by the mother than the father but for us, it was the other way round. I remember so many small titbit advises, understandings that were given to me by my father as compared to my mother: building confidence, giving exposure, opening the mind, unknowingly and unconsciously being taught what is family, what is right, what is wrong, the fear of law, the stark honesty in your deeds, the compassion, the humanity, enjoying the present, travel as a teacher, socialization, open discussions without inhibitions, making your viewpoint known, watching films, reading newspapers and books. The list is endless. So many such small things which make a big picture in your life were all given by him. It is not that my mother did nothing but yes she was always overshadowed by his larger than life personality, by his careless freedom, by his faith in us.
Dadoo is unable to take care of his body. It makes me go mad at the injustice of it all. A year back the confusion had started when bathing became a cumbersome process for him, he could not do it on his own. In the beginning Mamma used to keep the towel and his clothes and fill the bucket with water and guide him to the bathroom but slowly, this independence too deteriorated. Now you have to take him to the washroom, take off his clothes, massage the soap on his body, pour water, pat him dry and make him wear his clothes.
During this process it arouses, sorrow and pity for him and a loathing and contempt for myself. I cringe and shrink when I see his naked, frail body. He is a bony figure with dark patches of blood clots and raw wounds caused by his constant itching. Dementia has not only destroyed him mentally but also made him so weak and vulnerable physically. The doctors tell me that oils in the body dry due to this illness and the patient suffers from a constant itch. He will never be at peace.
You have to be calm, you have to be patient, you have to tell this to yourself every time that it is not his control. But it is not easy, you do get irritated, angry and impatient. And later when you have shouted and said something rude you nurse the guilt for a long time and you realize how little you do for your parents. Your selfishness blatantly stares at you though you tell yourself, he can’t help it but neither can you.