The Good Son

The siren of the ambulance wails through the night…a mad rush for the hospital. Yet another accident on the streets of Mumbai. A drunk driver. An innocent bystander.

Eyes, they say are windows to the soul. Yours always were, ma. Of course, only people closest to you, those who knew you well, could comprehend what those windows said even as your face remained expressionless. The deadpan countenance could not hide the twinkle in your eyes as you told one of your outrageously funny stories. The concern in your eyes was barely concealed when you comforted us after a fall on the playground, all the while telling us to be brave. One angry look was enough to make us tremble with fear, when you found out we had been naughty.

I am sorry, sir, her condition is critical. We are trying our best. The operation has already begun. In the meantime, please bring these medicines and injections.

How you hid the hurt, the tears threatening to spill over,  after a fight with papa, which you wouldn’t want us kids to know…just to make us feel that everything was hunky-dory between the two of you because you knew that your arguments frightened us. Your eyes betrayed the suffering of knowing that you were losing papa to alcohol.

She is in coma. Her spinal cord is badly damaged. She is on a respirator; she is alive, though not responding to any stimulus. It can take days, months or even years. Medical science can only do this much, no more. Just wait and pray, trust in God, everything will be alright.

The trauma, the distress, even as you stoically hid behind a façade of quietude, a mask of placidity…I could see through it, ma, the pain that you felt when papa finally succumbed to his battle with the bottle.  For the briefest of periods, your eyes looked lost, vulnerable, and insecure. Yet, you picked up the pieces of life, with a smile on your lips for our sake, that determination evident in your eyes, the never-say-die spirit surfacing to the exclusion of all grief. The tiredness and fatigue did show up sometimes though, when in one of your rare pensive moods, you brushed away a pearl drop from the shells that enclosed so many emotions within them.

Disbelief, anger, hurt. Why her? How could this happen to her? She never did anything wrong…she is such a good lady, helpful and sweet. A constant stream of visitors to room number 4 – relatives, neighbors, friends, students from the school; explanations, recounting the terrifying experience. Promises to let them know if anything was needed. Night falls gradually bringing with it a deathly stillness.

Your eyes were blank, ma, they have never looked like that. As they wheeled you in from the operation theatre to the room, they were vacant, shorn of all expression. Your body looked lifeless, it would, I could accept that, but why your eyes? Please, ma, please respond…don’t let go like this. Please, please don’t give up. You have been a pillar of strength for us, we can’t do without you. Don’t lose hope yet…you will be fine. I am here to stand by you through all trials and tribulations. At least let your eyes speak, the way they used to earlier. Your spirit is indomitable, not confined to the noisy respirator with which your life seems to be bound.

No, we don’t know. I have been around very long, no, I haven’t seen any miracles. Please don’t think I am being rude, I sympathize with you. The sooner you get on with your life, the better it is for you. She is going to be dependent on that respirator only, now. Anyway, it is time to change her clothes. Will you please go out for a while?

How you used to caress my forehead as we spoke in earlier times, ma. Such a soothing feeling…your kind voice, soft and comforting…I hope you recognize my touch now. You do, don’t you? What a relief it is to see that flicker of recognition in your eyes. I know, you will gradually be well again. Is that a plea in your eyes, ma? Release? From this feeling of helplessness? Of dependency? Of a life confined to this room with that monstrosity of a respirator? I can’t see you like this…not when you have been independent all your life. Yes, ma, I will do as you bid me to...finally you look at peace, rested, tranquil, serene…happy. Eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul.

A silent room. Doctor, doctor… patient in room number 4… there is no pulse, no breath. Her respirator is switched off. It was on yesterday night when I went to change her clothes.  Her son is there. He doesn’t say anything. Not even a word. Just standing there, expressionless, blank...